


Just Another Guy With A Bow

by myrmidryad



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Advanced Idea Mechanics, Multi, SHIELD, Singing, Ten Rings, carson's carnival of travelling wonders, clint's childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:42:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 94,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's life is a steady progression from point A to point B, but it's everything that happens between those points that make the story interesting. Things like joining the circus, losing Barney, finding Barney, stumbling into SHIELD, trusting Coulson, making a different call when he's sent to kill the Black Widow, and becoming part of the dysfunctional Avengers team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starting From Zero, Got Nothing To Lose

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter titles in this story are all taken from songs, the links for which I've included at the top of each chapter. However, I've now made a fanmix to accompany the fic, which has all those songs compiled in order, plus one super shiny bonus track. This is available to download [here](http://www.mediafire.com/?o2zzizt2soexk5v) if you feel so inclined.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint joins the circus, departs many years later, commits a crime, enlists, and allows Agent Coulson to recruit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Fast Car](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O6475u0wEG0) by Tracy Chapman

Clint’s never been much of a team player. 

The world’s never really shown him how to do anything but look out for his own hide. Maybe add in a couple of other people along the way, but mostly he looks out for number one, and screw anyone else who gets in the way. 

He’s the little brother, so he never feels the urge to look out for Barney, who’s three years older than him and can actually remember what their parents looked like. Clint was only four when they died, and all he remembers of his mother is an aura of beaten-down trepidation, and his father holds a space in his mind reserved for stale beer, heavy footsteps, and a loud, angry voice. He doesn’t remember actually being hit by him, but Barney tells him that they had both been on the receiving end of their father’s fist, and their mother had caught the worst of it for trying to protect them. 

Clint had never been able to tell when Barney was lying or not when he was a kid though, so who really knew? 

 

 

Hawkeye is born in Carson’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders, which he and Barney join not long after his tenth birthday. They catch Mr Carson after the show in the big top and beg to join, showing him their orphan’s lunch cards to prove that they had no one to leave behind and wouldn’t be missed anyway. Carson tells them in his slow, sarcastic drawl (so different from his booming, clearly enunciated ringmaster voice) to see Vinny, who has been known to take passengers in his van from one town to the next for a small fee. 

So they hitch a ride with Vinny, and join the circus. After sticking around for a month and proving their worth by performing a hundred odd jobs, Carson finally smiles his slow smile and starts to pay them for their trouble. 

Clint learns the circus like a map and learns to make it his own. The circus in the mid-eighties wasn’t the best environment for a child, he realises in retrospect – he was taught to hold his drink at a criminally young age, he knew what naked women looked like in real life far before any of the kids his age in the audience, and he picked up more curse words than a sailor and utilised them as much as he pleased, much to the amusement of those who had taught them to him. 

The circus glows bright and colourful in his memories of childhood. He first holds a bow in Trickshot’s tent, and learns to throw a knife from the Swordsman. Cook teaches him the tricks of the kitchen when he’s still too short to even see the countertop (he’s a short, skinny kid), and the three Janets show him how to backflip and somersault without hurting himself or landing flat on his face. It isn’t always perfect – the circus has always been a good place for unsavoury characters to hide from normal life, and Clint learns quickly to avoid certain people – Karl the animal keeper, Pete the mechanic, Hal the strongman. Some people don’t like kids who move too fast and are too smart for their own good, so Clint learns to shut up and do his job when needed. Besides, they leave him alone when he starts to bring in good money. 

Clint Barton is a skinny kid with a smart mouth who runs full-tilt between the tents and vans and has an irritating tendency to climb anything, from trees to caravans to the inside of the big top, and spy on people just because he likes to know _everything_ that goes on in the strange, sprawling place he’s learning to call home. Hawkeye is a prodigious child archer who can hit apples thrown by the ringmaster standing on the floor of the ring while flying through the air on the trapeze, upside down. When they hit a new town, Hawkeye can be relied on to bring in the starry-eyed kids by doing a few fancy tricks in the streets under one of the posters, which has his name in big letters painted across it – HAWKEYE THE CHILD WONDER! HE NEVER MISSES! Every kid dreams of running away to join the circus, after all. Through Hawkeye, a real child circus star, they can live that dream. 

Clint never thinks of Barney, not as fast, not as skilled, left behind to be an odd jobs-man while Hawkeye is trained by Trickshot and the Swordsman, two of the best attractions in the carnival. He looks out for number one, and doesn’t see it coming when Barney leaves, leaving him a short note on his bunk in the van they share (Clint learns to drive as soon as he’s tall enough to reach the pedals and see over the dashboard at the same time). Fifteen years old, and Clint reads the note and doesn’t know how to react. Barney says he’s joining the army, and Clint sits on his bunk in silence and realises that Barney’s left all of his trinkets and personal belongings behind. He’s taken some of his clothes, and that’s it. 

Clint sits in silence for maybe an hour, maybe two, and falls asleep in his clothes, which had been Barney’s before they had been his, bought dirt cheap from thrift stores and handed down from their older friends, because even being a star attraction pays like shit in a circus in the nineties. Not enough people care about the circus then. It’s a dying attraction, and everyone there knows it, and feels it in over-darned clothes and hungry animals and not having enough gas in their vans. 

But Clint looks out for number one, folds the note and puts it away. Gets another van-mate called Flint, who’s the twelve year-old son of Bertha the tattooed lady and wants a bit more independence. In return for Clint letting him live in the van, Flint teaches him how to play the guitar and they’re both surprised when it turns out that Clint actually has a halfway decent voice. It makes up for Barney’s sudden disappearance, and they become friends. Clint keeps pulling back the string of his bow and loosing arrows into targets to applause and cheers from an audience that didn’t pay enough, because his bow feels right in his hand like nothing else ever has, though Flint’s guitar comes close. 

That’s the point of his life, he knows. Archery and marksmanship is something he isn’t just _good_ at – he’s a prodigy. He’s the _best_. Since the moment the Swordsman passed him to Trickshot to learn some basic moves to spice up their act, Clint’s known that blades are unreliable and pale in comparison to the smooth lines of a bow and the true flight of an arrow loosed from his fingers and the string. He has perfect sight and an innate ability to judge the path the arrow will take depending on his stance and the tension of the string. He can pin someone’s hat to the wall behind them with less than an inch to spare and he can shatter shot glasses from a hundred feet away. He’s the best damn shot anyone’s ever seen, and he knows it the same way he knows that his startling talent will be worth exactly _shit_ out in the real world beyond the tent walls. 

 

 

In 1991, when he’s sixteen and sure of his place in the circus if nothing else in the world, Max the magician picks up an assistant to sex up his routine. After Flint tells him to look for a pair of great legs and a head of platinum blonde hair, Clint finds her with Hal the strongman outside Cook’s van. She catches his eye and grins wide enough to display all of her gleaming white teeth. 

“There y’are!” she beams and sashays over to him, tiny denim shorts and cropped tank top leaving very little to Clint’s currently overactive imagination. “I found the food van easy enough, just like y’said – ready to show me the rest of this place?” Clint’s so surprised he doesn’t say a word as she slides her arm through his like they’re old friends and leads him away, calling over her shoulder, “See you around, Hal!” 

“You wanna stay away from him,” Clint tells her as soon as his voice returns. 

“Y’don’t have t’ tell me, honey,” she whispers in his ear, and Clint falls so hard and fast for her right then and there he almost trips over his own feet. “I’m Lori, by the way.” 

“Clint.” They shake hands and become friends just like that, and Clint jerks off whenever Flint’s not in the van to the mental image of what’s under those tiny shorts and cropped tank. 

Lori’s fucked up and running from her past, as most people in Carson’s Carnival of Travelling Mental Health Issues tend to be, and she never even bothers to pretend she’s anything more than white trash. She’d rather buy hair dye than food, flirts with anyone in front of her, and introduces Clint to the world of music with an enthusiasm that borders on the manic and proves to be infectious. Clint buys a Walkman third-hand from Joe the clown and devours practically everything he gets his hands on, learning to pick out the tunes on Flint’s guitar and playing for anyone who cares enough to listen. He isn’t above joining Lisa and Polly (the riders who can stand on their hands on the backs of their horses and somersault from one horse to another like they’re made of air) when they leave the tents and vans late at night to break into empty houses and steal tapes he thinks he’ll like. Lori comes along sometimes to get jewellery and other girly things, and Clint steals music for her as well, as much to see her smile as to be on the receiving end of her warm, painfully platonic hugs. He’s seventeen and she’s eighteen, and apparently those few months make all the difference. 

She dances her way around the circus, falls in and out of people’s vans, and on one occasion she gets so drunk that Clint finds her unconscious outside the big top and has to drag her back to his and Flint’s van so that she won’t end up sick or found by someone like Hal, who has a tendency to corner her whenever he can. He isn’t the only one, but Clint won’t step in unless Lori asks him, and she never does. 

“Why do you do this?” he asks her impulsively after finding her shivering in her underwear and someone else’s shirt too far away from anyone’s van for him to tell who she’s just left. 

She smiles around the cigarette she’s holding between two shaking fingers and doesn’t look at him when she says, “Gives me the idea I’m in control, sweetie. If I go to them…” she exhales a plume of smoke, “…means I’m callin’ th’ shots.” 

You’re not though, Clint wants to say, and doesn’t. Instead, he pulls her up by the hand and they go into his van to smoke and listen to Dolly Parton and Creedence Clearwater Revival with Flint and Gay Johnny, who paints his nails with Lori and never leaves the circus after that time he was beaten up outside a bar and almost had to go to hospital. He shoots knowing glances at Clint every time Lori’s around, and Clint ignores him every time. 

He pins songs to his past and the people he knows, and it helps him to make sense of the world. He sees past what people project and hears the lyrics in their lives, the beats they walk their lines to. Lori is _Fast Car_ , and later when he hears it on the radio and listens to the lyrics, _Like A Friend_. His childhood before the circus is awful in its silence, but the world bursts into song after he and Barney join Carson’s Carnival. _Here I Go Again_ blasting from shitty van radios as they speed along the endless roads from one town to another, and almost the whole company joining in to sing _Fight For Your Right_ and _Born In The USA_ late at night after a really good show. 

Mr Carson the ringmaster is _Any Old Wind That Blows_ because Clint sees how much he loves his Carnival of Travelling Cash Problems and needs it in his life to anchor him to something steady. Flint takes _Don’t Stop Believing_ , and Trickshot is _Don’t Stop Me Now_ before he leaves them to get a steady job in Seattle, and then he becomes irreversibly associated with _Losing My Religion_ , because that played on the radio all week after he left. _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ becomes the anthem for the time he spends with Lori and Flint and a few of the other kids around their age in the circus. They steal booze and smoke pot and Clint watches in resigned silence as Lori screws just about every single one of them except him and Gay Johnny. 

Lori loves to hear him tell stories of the circus as it had been when he’d first joined it as a kid in the eighties. They’d had a tiger back then, he tells her. He and Trickshot had been the best archery act this side of anywhere, he grins, sketching their old routines with his callused fingers in the air for her. The cops had once bust in looking for anything suspicious, he whispers. Lisa and Polly had had to hide their loot from the past few days up an oak tree by the side of the field they’d set up in, and they had paid him in stolen booze to climb the tree for them and make sure it was too high up to be seen from the ground. 

He paints pictures of the circus before it really started to go downhill, when the Swordsman had mesmerised hundreds of people and made them scream when he threw knives at a younger Clint, tied to a spinning board and grinning wide at the audience. How the audiences had really _laughed_ at the clowns, and gasped as the three Janets fell from the high ropes at the top of the tent and twisted and twirled around each other in terrifying feats of agility. It had been brighter back then. By 1994, Clint knows that he has to leave. People are too jaded now to appreciate a good marksman and too many have already left. Flint and his family have packed up and dropped out, and Clint hasn’t found a new van-mate. Cook’s been put in a retirement home after his dementia means he almost poisons half the circus one night by accident. Lisa and Polly are caught by the cops on one of their robbing sprees and the circus has to leave town without them. The Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders is dying, and Clint plans to get out before he drowns with it. 

“Come with me,” he asks Lori. She laughs and tosses her beautiful blonde hair, takes another drag of her cigarette and refuses. He asks her every day until he leaves, and somehow isn’t surprised when she turns up with a duffel bag the second before he starts the engine of the beaten-up car he traded for his old van and jumps in with him. 

 

 

Beck’s _Loser_ , Oasis’ _Wonderwall_ , and _Peaches_ by The Presidents of the United States of America blare from the cracked radio in Clint’s new car as they make the road their new home and learn how to live with each other in such close quarters. Lori shows him how to hustle pool and pickpocket from drunks to pay for gas and food and they speed across the country for months on end, sleeping in the car if they can’t afford a motel room. On his nineteenth birthday, Lori gets him completely smashed, and he kisses her and doesn’t remember properly the next morning. He catches her hand a week later and kisses her again, and she kisses him back for a full minute before pulling away and sitting down on the hood of the car next to him. 

“I can’t be the girl y’want, honey,” she says, and Clint shakes his head. 

“I don’t care.” 

“Y’will. Look, I love you, okay?” she turns to him and touches her hand to his face, brown eyes soft and kind. “But we’d just end up fuckin’ each other over. Trust me.” 

“No,” he says, and kisses her again. She relents for a night and divests him of his virginity with breath-taking speed (mostly his fault, but she tells him she doesn’t mind), and in the morning she kisses him on the mouth and tells him that’s his one and only with her. 

He mourns for about a week, and then Lori drags him to a bar in the town they’ve stopped in for the night, somewhere in Georgia, gets a few drinks down him, and finds the most beautiful woman in the bar – a dark-skinned lady called Opal whose hips sway like Lori’s as she comes over. She smirks and looks him up and down twice. “Cute,” her smirk grows, and Lori wiggles her eyebrows meaningfully over her shoulder. Clint doesn’t fancy himself particularly smart, but he can take a hint, and he buys Opal a drink. Lori sleeps in the car while Clint and Opal get busy in a motel and after that Hootie and the Blowfish sing _Only Wanna Be With You_ from the car radio and everything is fine again. 

 

 

Clint keeps his bow and arrows in the trunk of the car and practises every now and then to keep sharp, even though he still never misses, no matter how long he leaves it before he picks it up again. It’s something inside him, he knows, and he loves that certainty. Lori sets challenges for him – shoot a beer bottle off the top of the car as she drives it, shoot the little O in that billboard advertising Oreos, shoot the cowboy hat she tosses into the air and pin it by the brim to the tree ten yards behind her – and they drive on through one town to the next. They decide to go to Jacksonville just so that they can sing _Jackson_ and play the parts of June and Johnny respectively, singing loud enough for the other drivers near them on the freeway to hear them. They buy cell phones together, and figure out how to use them through trial and error because neither of them has ever used anything but pay phones before. 

On Lori’s twenty-first birthday in the sticky August heat they park the car on a road in a town in Ohio and start in one bar with plans to move on to several others. They both get hideously drunk too quickly, and Clint doesn’t notice until it’s almost too late that Lori went missing a few minutes ago. He stumbles outside and finds her being hauled into a car by two guys. She’s unconscious, and they try to spin him a line about her being a friend of theirs who’s had too much to drink before he asks them to tell him at the same time what her name is. They can’t answer, and they both get defensive, and Clint punches one in face and manages to lead them down the alley next to the bar where the bins are kept. He moves with cold precision, suddenly not as drunk as he thought, and when one of them pulls a knife he almost laughs, because he was taught by the Swordsman how to handle blades, and he knows more than they ever will. 

He focuses on the guy with the knife first, letting the other man land a punch to his side so that he can get close enough to slam the heel of his palm up into the knife-holder’s face the way Trickshot showed him. The guy’s nose breaks, and he grabs the knife off him and shoves it hard into the chest of the other man, just under the ribs. When he pulls it out, the man makes a high-pitched sound and scrabbles at his jacket. Clint moves behind him, winds a hand in the guy’s greasy hair to hold his head still, and pulls the blade across his throat. The first guy only notices when his friend falls to the ground in front of him, and by the time he’s seen through the blood in his eyes what’s happened, Clint’s already behind him, cutting his throat as well. He chokes, blood spraying out, and Clint stands still for a moment after he falls, thinking. 

He considers the knife, then wipes it clean on the back of one of the dead men’s jackets, pulls his sleeve down over his hand and scrubs the handle free of any prints. Drops it to the ground and squats down to go through the guys’ pockets, still with his sleeve down over his hand. He takes the money from their wallets and dumps them on the ground next to the knife. He finds car keys and considers taking their car, then changes his mind and leaves them behind. He exits the alley and finds Lori still in the backseat she’d been shoved into. He slings her over his shoulder and walks back to where they parked the car after checking that she was just unconscious, not hurt. He’s screwed if they get caught – he’s got blood on him that isn’t his, and he’s had way too much to drink to drive safely – but he starts the engine and leaves town anyway. He drives for hours and pulls over in a layby far away from anywhere. He falls asleep after checking Lori one more time, and forgets about the blood drying on his hands and clothes. 

Lori screams when she wakes up and sees it, and only gets it together enough to get them a motel room because Clint yells at her. He sneaks in after her so that no one sees the state he’s in and takes a shower. He’ll dump his jacket and jeans first chance he gets, he decides, and concentrates on getting clean. Lori’s waiting for him when he comes out, and only then does he sit down on the bed and explain what happened to her. 

When he gets to the part where he killed them, he has to dash to the bathroom to throw up. When he comes back and resumes the story, he realises that it isn’t the fact that he took two lives that makes him feel sick, but the memory of the way the knife had felt in his hand as he pushed the blade into the man’s chest and pulled it roughly across their necks. He’s fine with having killed them, because he knows what they would’ve done to Lori if he hadn’t caught them. Lori’s a lot less okay with the whole situation, and she isn’t reassured by the measures he went to to protect his identity. 

This is the end, they realise. Lori can’t deal with this, and she wants to settle down and have a real life. Clint hasn’t ever known a real life, so he’s at a loss. “What’ll I do?” he asks her, feeling lost and a bit scared. 

“You could join the army?” Lori suggests, near tears. “You might even find your brother.” 

“Barney?” Clint raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t think about his big brother anymore. Barney’s departure from his life ended his childhood, if he’s honest with himself. The circus had seemed a little duller after he left, a little harder around the edges. It wasn’t helped by the steadily declining ticket sales of course, but Barney’s sudden absence is linked in Clint’s mind to a darker time of living. 

Lori cries a bit and then they end up kissing, and it’s goodbye. Clint can feel it in every movement of her tongue against his, in the sound of their clothes hitting the floor, and the smell of cheap motel sheets. They have sex slowly, tender and gentle, and Clint runs his hand through her hair and kisses her bare shoulders as she falls asleep. He wakes up around dawn and watches her for a long time as she sleeps soundly, stretched out like a relaxed cat next to him on the bed. 

He’s quiet enough not to wake her as he gets dressed and kisses her temple once more before going to the door. “Goodbye, Lori,” he whispers, and remembers to leave the car keys on the table for her before he leaves, taking his bloodied clothes with him to dump so that she doesn’t have to deal with it. 

He hitches a ride out of town and puts his head in his hands as _Wednesday Morning 3 A.M._ comes on the radio, and he finds a strange kind of gladness in the way the song fits his life.

 

 

Clint hadn’t realised how difficult his uncommon upbringing would interfere in enlisting. For starters, he doesn’t know his social security number. He hasn’t ever needed it before now, after all. He needs to get a legal driver’s license, because the fake that he’d been given for his van won’t stand up under army eyes, he’s sure. The only form of official documentation he actually has is his GED, and that’s not much. He ends up having to hitch his way all the way back to Iowa and Waverly to track down his damn social security number, and then he needs to get a job to pay for a motel room to live in while he gets his license and contacts his nearest recruiter. 

It all pays off though, and he finally gets his way into basic training. And what comes after that is a major shock to his system. 

Because Clint’s not a team player, but it turns out that the army is all about playing as a team, and there’s something about everyone being thrown in together with the same uniform and having to eat the same food and deal with the same shit and live the same lives as everyone else around that cements people together. Clint hadn’t gone in expecting anything like this, but he finds that not only can he do it, but that he enjoys it, to a degree. He doesn’t entirely trust the others, but he takes pride in the fact that they can trust him. 

He pushes his way through the parts of physical training he doesn’t enjoy and excels at the obstacle courses, climbing having always been a particular skill of his. He tells the others about the circus, because he definitely comes from the weirdest background out of any of them, and juggles and walks on his hands and does backflips to raucous applause. He adapts to the guns and quickly becomes the best damn shot anyone’s ever seen, and he knows _exactly_ how that goes.  At the graduation ceremony, he genuinely doesn’t care that there’s no one in the stands for his sake because he’s decided what he wants to do in advanced training. Although the bow will always be his first and favourite weapon, he’s not too shabby with a gun, and being a sniper definitely sounds like his kind of gig. 

 

 

Clint celebrates his twenty-first birthday on base, and the next four birthdays out of the country. He manages to be back on home soil for the birth of the new millennium, which is hailed in in a party that Clint doesn’t remember much of the following morning. By that time he’s killed enough people to mentally cover up the first two men he killed in that alley back in Ohio, and he’s killed enough people with bullets to know that it takes getting up close and personal to the kill, close enough to feel how hot blood is when it comes out of the middle of a living body for the death to really sink below the skin and stay. He watches the men around him laugh and walk tall like proud lions in the sun and listens to some of them cry when they think no one can see them. But he’s always been a nosy shit, so he knows everything that happens even if he never says a word about it. 

Clint hums _O Death_ and sends men to their graves when their time is up. Back in the field later that year, he nearly trips over his legs when someone holds up a bow they bought from a local store and asks if anyone knows how to shoot. By the time Clint has shown what he can do with a _real_ precision weapon singing in his hands, everyone’s calling him Robin Hood, and Clint’s face aches from grinning. Guns are fine, but he’s _missed_ shooting with a bow, he realises, and thinks sadly of his old bow from the circus, sold on with all of his other belongings when he joined the army. 

Word must get back along the line somewhere, and Clint finds himself called into a private office a few weeks after the bow incident to see a nondescript man with a small smile and a black suit. _Man In Black_ , he thinks, and it plays in his head as the man stretches out a hand and introduces himself as Agent Phil Coulson. 

 

 

SHIELD is something else. Clint passes their basic training tests with flying colours, passes their psych evaluations with no apparent problems, gets his own little room in a base in New York. He’s under lockdown for the first couple of months, so he learns the layout of the base like the back of his hand and learns Coulson’s face above all others. Coulson is the model of a model of the face of a faceless organisation. He’s always dressed impeccably, he always looks approachable and unassuming, and he can deliver threats with a sort of kindness that makes Clint laugh out loud for their daring as much for the fact that Coulson could actually carry them through with no trouble at all. 

SHIELD is like the army, but looser. There’s more room to breathe, and Clint hadn’t noticed before that breathing space was something he had been gasping for. He sits alone in his room and _relaxes_ for the first time in what feels like years. It’s contained and quiet, he has a new place where his real skill set is not only going to be acknowledged, but actually utilised, and there’s a 24 hour kitchenette down the hall. Life is looking up. 

Lockdown would be boring, but Coulson comes in halfway through his first week and finds him throwing cards in the rec room, feet up on the table, eyes half-closed and lazy. “Having a relaxing day?” 

“I sure am, sir,” Clint looks up at him and flicks a card up in the air. It spins crazily and he catches it between two fingers before turning it and presenting it to Coulson with a tiny smirk. “Thanks for asking.” It’s the ace of spades, and Coulson takes it from him without looking at it. 

“You’re due in training room in five minutes, Barton. I’d get moving.” 

“Training room?” Clint sits up properly, sliding his feet off the table. “What am I training for?” 

“For the future.” Coulson puts the card down on the table. “You’re accuracy is off the charts, but you move like an elephant on steroids.” 

“I’m a sniper!” Clint says, offended. “Best in the damn force!” 

“Which is why we picked you,” Coulson’s voice remains calm and matter-of-fact. “But SHIELD has higher standards of stealth than the armed forces, Barton. If you ever want to make it to being a proper agent, you’d better shape up.” 

Clint scowls and stands up. “How long did you say it takes to become an active SHIELD agent?”

“Two to three years.” 

“I’ll do it in one,” Clint tells him, and stalks out. He regrets his words as the prickling sensation of his anger fades. He’s too used to army bravado, he thinks, but he’s meant to be a spy now, keeping his cool at all times. And if he’s just made a vow he finds he can’t keep, it’ll burn every time Coulson smirks at him. 

He trains with an agent called Jimmy Woo, who explains that he’s on extended leave to teach instead of working in the field, but he makes exceptions if Fury asks nicely. Clint doesn’t know who Fury is, but he gets the impression that he’s higher up than Coulson is, which is a minorly intimidating thought. 

Jimmy wipes the floor with him. It would be humiliating if he wasn’t such a nice guy, but since he is, Clint doesn’t mind as much as he usually would when his flaws are pointed out and dissected in painful detail. If Coulson was trained in stealth like this, Clint thinks as Jimmy demonstrates walking across a room in absolute silence for the tenth time, it’s no wonder he thinks that Clint moves with all the grace of an elephant. 

Though actually, Clint’s seen elephants in action, and they’re pretty graceful animals in his opinion. But he gets the point behind it, and it’s just as embarrassing when Jimmy successfully ambushes him for the seventeenth time as it was when he did it the first time. The man moves like a goddamn shadow. 

“How the hell are you doing that?” Clint asks after the nineteenth ambush, when Jimmy had simply walked behind him, matching him step for step so well he didn’t hear him until it was too late and he was on the floor with Jimmy’s foot on his throat. _Embarrassing_. 

“I’m just walking quietly,” Jimmy grins and rolls off him, offering him a hand up. Clint takes it and sighs as Jimmy pulls him easily to his feet. 

“Okay, show me how to walk quietly again?” 

They spend about five hours in the training room (which is more like a hall, with adjustable equipment to simulate corridors, trees, rocks, and any other basic things an agent might need to utilise in the field. Clint manages to walk with less noise than he had before, but he still doesn’t manage to ambush Jimmy once. He doesn’t mind because Jimmy is basically the god of sneaking around, and Clint’s only realised from the training session how noisy people actually are. Moving quietly is actually damn hard. 

Coulson schedules him for a session every day. Clint’s a fast learner, and by the same time next week he’s got a good handle on walking quietly, and he’s learning more every day. There are tricks to positioning the feet as they come down to spread the weight and lessen the force of the connection between sole and floor, and techniques to stifle the sounds of material shifting against the skin. Clint learns to control his breathing even when he’s out of breath, and to adapt his style of walking to every situation. He learns to dance, and how to blend into a crowd. 

He doesn’t even notice when his lockdown ends, because he’s so caught up in learning stealth from Jimmy. He doesn’t stop when he leaves the training room either, because he figures that being a secret agent (he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that idea) is a full-time job. Coulson can appear silently like Jimmy can, and he doesn’t ever make any noise that isn’t necessary. Clint admires that ability, and imitation is the highest form of flattery. 

He’s been at the New York base for a month when he disappears. 

He’s last seen leaving the training room at one in the afternoon. On the internal cameras, he turns a corner, enters a blind spot, and doesn’t leave it. 

Clint watches the slow decline of calm with a childish glee he hasn’t felt for a long time. 

At three-thirty, Coulson arrives on site. Clint watches him examine the camera footage, and go to the spot where Clint vanished into thin air. Clint grins huge and wide as Coulson narrows his eyes, looks up at the section of the ceiling not covered by the camera’s gaze, and then suppress an amused smile. He cocks his head and then smiles properly, casually adjusting the strap of his watch as he says, “Get out of the ceiling, Barton. The walls of this facility are not your personal playground.” 

Clint only just manages to stop himself laughing, but he does commit the furious and astonished face of the head of security and his underlings as he pulls one of the panels in the ceiling free and drops down through the hole. He lands almost silently, knees bending and one hand bracing himself on the floor before he stands up and gives Coulson his best shit-eating grin. “How’d you know I was there, sir?” 

“Your movements have caused a lot of dust to shift up there. I noticed it when I entered the building, but the reason behind it became obvious when I saw that you could access those crawlspaces from this particular blind spot.” 

“Good to know, sir.” 

“Dismissed, gentlemen,” Coulson glances at the head of security, who shoots Clint the filthiest glare he’s seen in a long time before stalking away, his posse of camera-hens clucking behind him. Clint keeps his smile when Coulson turns back to him and raises an eyebrow. “Please refrain from panicking the staff, Barton.” 

“I did them a favour,” Clint shrugs. “They wouldn’t’ve known about that blind spot if I hadn’t pointed it out.” 

“I think there are probably less unnerving ways to point out flaws in the security, don’t you think?” Coulson smiles slightly though, so Clint considers it a victory. “You’re grounded for a week, Barton. Get back to your room.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“And Barton?” 

Clint looks back over his shoulder. Coulson gives him a nod, something like appreciation in his expression. 

“Good work.” 

Clint bows deep, arms spread out the way Mr Carson always did at the end of a show, legs a straight line below him. Coulson’s smile widens just a fraction, and Clint grins and commits that to memory as well before he turns the corner and makes his way back to his room. Being grounded isn’t a problem – he’s got plenty of stealth techniques he still wants to work on, and he’s still got rec room privileges. Training to be an agent of SHIELD is more fun than he would have expected. 

 

 

Clint gets his first solo mission a year and a half after being recruited. He reads the whole briefing folder in the briefing room (files like that have to be burned on camera – the information on that paper leaves the room in Clint’s head, or not at all), rereads the important bits, and looks at Coulson when he’s finished. Coulson doesn’t look back. He’s been sitting on the other side of the table doing his own paperwork, waiting for Clint to be done. 

“I could sum up everything in this folder in three sentences,” Clint says bluntly. Coulson’s eyes don’t leave his phone, but he raises an eyebrow. “Find old guy. Track old guy. Kill old guy. There, done. Did I really need to know all of this?” 

“Forget the bits you don’t think you need to know,” Coulson suggests mildly. “Would you rather we just gave you a target and let you loose?” 

Clint sighs and leans his chair back on two legs. That’s something he really likes about SHIELD, actually; they don’t just give you a target and expect you to follow orders blindly. He’s allowed to refuse a mission if he wants to (though more than five refusals in six months earns a referral), and he’s allowed to ask questions up to a point. He knows the reasons behind SHIELD wanting his target dead, but since most of it is a lot of political stuff he doesn’t care about, he figures he’s wasted time reading the huge briefing folder. 

“I guess not, sir,” he says as Coulson presses the button on his side of the table that means they’re done, “but a lot of the information in that folder was unnecessary. I don’t need to know his favourite flavour of ice-cream, or where he went on holiday as a kid.” 

“You never know what information you might need in a tight spot,” Coulson reminds him. Clint scowls, but falls silent as the door opens and a man with a shredder comes in. The file is destroyed, and the thin strips of paper will be sent to the incinerator. It’s a tidy system, which is something Clint can appreciate. 

His target is an American diplomat on foreign soil. He takes out the guards at the man’s residence with guns, the security system with electrostatically charged arrows, and he strangles his target up close and personal with a thin wire. It’s the preferred assassination technique of one of the man’s rivals in the area. Coulson guides Clint through hacking the man’s computer via his earpiece, and they steal everything of value before Clint leaves. The bodies will be discovered in the morning by the delivery man and the maid, and Clint is back on home soil before the news reaches enemy ears. 

“Good job,” is all Coulson says once he’s cleaned up. “That was your final test.” 

“I passed, right?” Clint sounds cocky, but his stomach clenches suddenly at the thought of failing. SHIELD has accidentally become his life. He’s _good_ at this. And he gets to use his bow, which will never stop being a fantastic bonus. 

“You passed,” Coulson nods and shoots him a faint smile. “Now you get to meet the boss.” 

The enigmatic Nick Fury, who only has one eye which he uses to glare people into submission until they’re quivering wrecks under his legendary gaze. Clint’s picked up a lot of stories from Jimmy and the other agents and trainees he lives with in the New York base. He’s interested to see whether Fury lives up to his frightening reputation. 

“Why, sir,” he widens his eyes and puts a hand on his chest, “aren’t you the boss?” 

Coulson gives him a look that tells Clint that he’s both amused and totally able to break each of Clint’s fingers without breaking a sweat while he holds him still for the procedure. “I’ll always be your boss, Barton,” he says, and Clint grins wide and unrepentant. 

Fury wears a calf-length black trench coat that should by all rights look ridiculous and melodramatic. On Director Fury, it looks intimidating. Clint’s always been impressed by costumes since getting his first one made for him in the carnival. Clothes make the man, Jenny the seamstress had told him, and showed him how the light would make the fabric shine a bright, regal purple as Clint somersaulted through the air. Fury’s coat and eye patch are as much a costume as his old purple leotard, but it’s the way he wears them that makes Clint draw himself up tall and look the man directly in the eye. 

“Director Fury,” Coulson says in the background, “this is Clint Barton, the archer I told you about.” 

“You shoot straight, Agent Barton?” Fury asks, and Clint doesn’t let the thrill that buzzes through him at the title show in his face. 

“I never miss, sir.” 

Fury raises an eyebrow, but nods after a moment and holds out a hand, palm up. Coulson puts a file in it without looking up from his phone, and Fury flips it open and takes a photograph out. He turns it round for Clint to see and Clint’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Recognise him?” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint forces his emotions down but can’t pull his eyes away from the familiar face. The man in the photograph is older than when Clint last saw him, but there’s no mistaking it. “That’s my brother, sir. Barney Barton.” 

“I believe you wanted to know whether SHIELD would be able to find him for you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well,” Fury slides the photograph back in the file and flips it shut, “we’ve found him. Roughly speaking.”

“What does that mean, sir?” Clint keeps his voice steady, but images of the soldiers he’s fought with flood his mind – soldiers who were there one minute and dead the next, blood on cold sand and expressions of shock and twisted agony when the pain hit. Not Barney, he thinks, needing it to be true. Not my brother. He’d thought he didn’t care that much about Barney since he’d left, but since the thought of Barney being dead makes his stomach clench, apparently he does still care. 

“He’s off-grid at the moment, Agent Barton,” Fury says, and Clint lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

“Sir?” he asks to cover it. 

“He’s been recruited by General Ross. Soldiers under Ross’ jurisdiction are cut off from outside influences. It’s unlikely that you’ll see him for the next few years at least.” 

“Thunderbolt Ross?” Clint frowns. He remembers that name. “Isn’t he involved in science projects?” 

“Vaguely speaking,” Fury says darkly, and Clint lets it go. Barney is alive. That’s enough. “Agent Coulson tells me you’ve got serious potential, Agent Barton,” Fury fixes him with his one eye and Clint looks back steadily. “You’ve reached agent status in half the time it normally takes, you’ve got a specialist skill, and your progress in stealth operations is something of a discussion point among Agent Woo and his colleagues.” Clint smiles, not bothering to hide it. “You also spend too much of your time sneaking around in the air vents and crawl spaces, sneaking up on people and breaking into places you have no right being in.” 

Clint grins. “I like to keep in practise, sir, and keep others on their toes.” 

“I’d say you’ve done that,” Fury narrows his eye. “Miss Estevez has requested a transfer, and several complaints about your ‘stalker tendencies’ have been lodged.” 

“No one told me, sir,” Clint only just stops himself from shrugging. “I’ve heard nothing about that. And besides, if they’re gonna be SHIELD agents, shouldn’t they be prepared for that sort of stuff?” 

“There’s a limit,” Fury warns him, and Clint nods, dropping his smile. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hm.” Fury hands the file back to Coulson. “You weren’t kidding about the attitude.” 

Clint raises an eyebrow at Coulson, who gives him a calm ‘what did you expect?’ look. 

“Here’s what I’ve got on you so far, Agent Barton, stop me if I’m wrong,” Fury leans his weight on one leg and gives Clint a penetrating stare. “You’re not stupid, but you’re no brain either. You follow orders, but you can change your tune if the situation requires it. You’ve had an unconventional childhood, but you’re not real close with your brother – no high family values. You value a job well done, and you can work hard, but you’ve got a smart mouth and a tendency to run it off. You don’t put enough trust in others to have your back, so you’re not a great team player. You’re confident, bordering on cocky, and you like to piss people off by showing off and playing practical jokes, but you don’t feel the need to own up to them, so you’re not an attention-seeker. You don’t like secrets, or having anything hidden from you, so you have this really irritating habit of spying on everyone you know. How am I doing so far?” 

Clint tilts his head and considers it. “I can work fine in a team, sir.” 

Fury gives him a flat look. “You prefer to work alone.” 

“Fewer people to worry about,” Clint shrugs one-shouldered. Fury nods. 

“Here’s what I think, Agent Barton – you don’t really care. You take pride in your skills and your work, that’s true enough, but it’s the process that drives you, not the end result. The good news is, I can work with that.” He holds out his hand and Clint shakes it, not entirely sure what’s happening. “Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton. I hope you hang around for a while.” 

“I’m not fixed on going anywhere else, sir,” Clint tells him. Fury nods, drops his hand, and leaves. His coat flares out behind him, but he manages to flick it in just before the door closes on it. Clint’s impressed – it’s hard to get a good flare like that and not get it caught on things. He looks at Coulson and grins. “Serious potential, huh, Coulson?” 

“Don’t let it go to your head, Barton,” Coulson tells him dryly, though there’s a smile playing around his mouth. “You’ve only got one mission under your belt so far.” 

“So set me up with another.” Clint’s grinning and feeling good, riding high on the promotion. “You point me in the right direction, I’ll bring the arrows.” 

Coulson huffs air through his nose and shakes his head, but when Clint slings an arm around his shoulder, feeling daring, he says, “How do you feel about Rome?” 

“Never been. Is it nice?” 

“Lovely this time of year,” Coulson finally cracks a proper smile, and slides out from under Clint’s arm to lead the way out into the corridor. “There’s a certain gentleman who’s been causing some trouble with an Italian contact of ours…” 

 

 

Clint barely sleeps in his room for the next six months. He goes to Rome, Cairo, Belfast, Cape Town, Sao Paulo, Montreal, Buenos Aires, Mexico City, St Petersburg, Oslo, and even Dubai. And those are just the major cities – he races through dozens of smaller towns in countries ranging from China to Germany, Egypt to the US. On one memorable mission, his target happens to live on one of the islands in the Thousand Islands archipelago in Canada. He enjoys that one – he finishes up early and drives to Niagara Falls to watch the sun rise over the glittering mists that hover over the water. 

He goes anywhere they send him, and does whatever is in the order briefing. It’s not always killing. Several of his targets just need to be warned that someone’s keeping an eye on them. A mission in Singapore involves breaking up a meeting by panicking the participants. In the panic that ensues when he shoots a few smoke bomb arrows into the house, Clint knocks several of them out and steals the contents of a briefcase from a thin brown-skinned woman wearing a choker of rubies. The papers are in a language he doesn’t read, some form of Russian, but he folds them and stashes them in his bag and leaves enough sheets of blank paper in the woman’s briefcase that she won’t immediately notice the difference when she wakes. 

Some of his missions fail. Just a few, and usually because the target alters their pattern or brings in a factor SHIELD hadn’t accounted for. Those missions usually turn into waiting games where Clint stays very still and watches very quietly while his window of opportunity shrinks smaller and smaller, and when it vanishes, he leaves. It’s disappointing, but it’s never marked against him as long as the target never knows Clint was there. And all the time, Coulson’s voice is calm and ever-present in his ear, keeping him up to date, helping him do his job, and making sure Clint is alert and unharmed. Coulson becomes synonymous with his work, and when he’s given a mission with another handler because Coulson’s busy on something else, Clint doesn’t like it. 

He’s a professional, so he doesn’t say a word when the name in the briefing isn’t Agent P. Coulson. He just frowns. 

“Problem?” Coulson asks. 

“Who’s Agent Tenner?” Clint looks over the folder at Coulson, who sighs and keeps signing papers that need signing. 

“He’s a handler like me. He’s perfectly competent, Barton.” 

“You getting tired of me, Coulson?” Clint pulls a sad face, and though Coulson doesn’t look up, he smiles faintly. 

“Contrary to what you might believe, Barton, I do have other responsibilities besides you.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Clint pouts, “I’m the centre of your universe.” 

“Your lack of close friends baffles me.”

“Aw, that’s just mean. I’m too busy to make close friends! Besides, aren’t you my close friend, Coulson?” 

“I’m busier than you are, Barton. Agent Tenner is your handler for this mission. Deal with it.” 

 

 

Clint sleeps on the flight over to Papua New Guinea. Tenner is a tall man with hair so pale it’s almost white. His cheeks are red and sallow, and Clint doesn’t like him very much. But he wants to prove that he can actually work with handlers who aren’t Coulson, so he doesn’t protest, and falls asleep to avoid making awkward conversation. 

The mission goes horribly wrong the way only assassinations can. 

It isn’t Tenner’s fault. Clint knows this as he flees from far more armed guards than they had known about and tries to find running water to make the dogs lose his scent. It isn’t Tenner’s fault the intel was wrong, any more than the target’s kids had come to visit and brought their damn Pomeranian puppy with them. It isn’t Tenner’s fault that the dog had pissed in the room Clint had been hiding outside of, causing a maid to come in to clean up the mess. 

It _is_ Tenner’s fault, Clint thinks furiously as his breath burns in his lungs and his legs scream at him, that he had decided on that exact moment to tell Clint to verbally confirm his position. As if that wouldn’t draw any attention. Clint hadn’t answered, because the silence was deafening and the woman would definitely have heard him, so Tenner shouted at him, and then started to panic. Issued an ultimatum – Clint confirmed he was alive or they would send in back up. 

Clint had breathed as loudly as possible, hoping that Tenner would pick that up. Coulson would have. But Tenner didn’t, so Clint had whispered, “I’m here,” and the maid had heard him. 

And now he’s miles away from anyone, lost in the middle of the damn jungle with armed men and sniffer dogs on his heels. Clint howls curses in his head and thinks of the maid’s scream, silenced abruptly by his arrow in her throat. Too late, of course, but he had panicked like Tenner had panicked and that was that. He has absolutely no idea where the hell he’s going, and in his opinion, it’s a miracle that he hasn’t gotten himself killed yet. He knows exactly zip about what kind of animals live in the rainforests here, so for all he knows there are panthers stalking him in the choking darkness. He’s getting nothing but static from his earpiece, which is terrifying, because he’s so used to always having a helpful voice in his ear. 

“Couldn’t pick a city job, Barton,” he whispers, squinting through the darkness as though it will make any difference. Under the thick canopy, he can barely make anything out. He’s tripped and fallen too many times to count, and he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding from cutting himself up on the ground. Leaving a truly excellent trail for the dogs. Why the hell did the target have to live right on the edge of the damn jungle? And why the hell hadn’t he run back towards Upoia, where his rented car was?

 

 

He’s never been scared of the dark before, but before the dark hasn’t held terrors like poisonous spiders and snakes, and god knows how many biting insects. Clint forces himself to stand very still and breathe. He can’t hear any dogs or other sounds from his pursuers. There’s just the racket of animals in the undergrowth and the heavy, humid heat. He wants to sit down and cry like a lost child, but that’s really not an option. He doesn’t dare get the torch in his backpack out in case the men following him see it through the trees, but he really, really doesn’t want to sit down. Knowing today’s luck, he’ll sit down on a nest of army ants or something. 

So Clint sets his teeth, hoists his backpack up on his shoulders and starts walking. Even in near pitch-black darkness on unfamiliar terrain, he knows how to stay quiet. Jimmy taught him well how to walk like a ghost, even on noisy ground like this. He keeps his bow in one hand, an arrow in the other, ready to attack if needs be. His watch reads 2:45 am and his earpiece keeps up a faint buzz of static at all times. It’s irritating as hell, but he doesn’t dare remove it in case he comes back in range again and someone tries to talk to him. 

Clint decides that he hates everything and tries not to fall over too much as he walks until the world begins to lighten, sometime around five thirty. As soon as he can be sure there are no bugs or spiders or anything with too many legs hiding in the bark, Clint climbs a tree and ties himself to the branch, leaning back against the trunk. He dozes for several hours and snaps awake when the static in his ear goes from a background fuzz to a sudden burst of buzzing sounds. 

“Hello?” his voice cracks. He swallows a couple of times and tries again. “This is Agent Barton. Can anyone read me? Does anyone copy?” 

More buzzes. Like a voice, but he can’t make anything out. He unties himself and drops to the forest floor, ignoring the horrible stickiness in his mouth and the hollow feeling in his stomach. Physical discomfort can wait. “Okay, anyone copy?” 

More buzzing. Fantastic. Clint sighs and rolls the stiffness out of his neck. 

“Okay, if you do read me, I’m seriously lost, deep in the rainforest somewhere outside of Upoia. Earpiece is on the fritz, but I can hear buzzing, so I’m gonna keep walking and hope that the buzzing starts to sound more like voices soon. I’ll try and walk in the direction the signal gets clearest. Obviously. Buzz like a fly if you can hear me.” 

The earpiece hums obligingly, and Clint tries to work up some saliva in his mouth as he starts to walk. “So much for a rainforest,” he mutters, talking to keep himself calm as much as to keep whoever’s on the other end of the earpiece buzzing. “If it rained I’d get a drink, but not a fucking drop so far. Typical. I hate the tropics. It’s all false advertising. I swear, if I get mauled by a panther, I am haunting your asses. Especially you, Coulson. You’ll never get rid of me.” 

He walks and talks until his voice is nothing but a rasp, and it’s hours before a buzz on the line suddenly turns into a word. “Zzt zzzzzt zzton, do zzou copy?” 

“Hello?” Clint grabs his bow in his left hand and presses his fingers eagerly to the earpiece. “This is Agent Barton, do you hear me?” 

“Zzeeep wzzalkingz, Bartzzzn.” 

He can’t tell who the voice belongs to through all the static, but Clint doesn’t care. He massages his aching throat and picks up the pace. The background buzzing begins to fade and he grins wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. “I’m still here,” he croaks, “this is Agent Barton, still talking, and still walking, do you read me?” 

“We read you, agent,” there’s only a trace of static now, and Clint wants to close his eyes and cry with relief because it’s Coulson’s voice in his ear. 

“Never been so happy to hear you, man,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “Orders?” 

“Is your position secure?” 

Clint looks around. “There’s this weird animal in a tree over there, sort of like a ratty bear, but fluffy. Reddish brown and white. Long tail. Apart from him, I think I’m okay.” 

“Tree kangaroo,” Coulson says calmly. Clint’s lips crack when he smiles.

“Shall I bring it back as a present for you?” 

“I think you should leave it alone,” Coulson sounds vaguely amused, and Clint wants to sink to the forest floor and weep for joy. 

“You sure? It looks very fluffy. Perfect for stroking. You could be like the villain in a Bond movie, except with a – what was it?” 

“A tree kangaroo.” 

“Right, except with a tree kangaroo instead of a white cat. It’s a bit big though. I could get you a baby one!” 

“I have allergies.” 

“Liar, you just don’t want me to give you a present so you won’t have to give me a present.” 

“I think the fact that I’m rescuing you from a hostile environment counts as a present.” 

“Nah, that’s just your job.” Clint has to break off and swallow repeatedly because his throat has completely dried up. 

“Barton? Barton, do you copy?” 

He makes a wheezing noise and then manages to dredge up enough saliva to get his throat working again. “Thirsty, sorry,” he breathes. “Position secure, by the way. Someone coming to get me?” 

“We’re locating your position accurately now,” Coulson tells him. 

“How long will that take?” 

“It’s eighty percent complete. Just stay where you are.” 

“Staying.” 

“Okay. You’re less than two miles from the road. Head south-east.” 

“How far away from Upoia am I?” 

“Roughly six miles.” 

“That all?” Clint coughs. 

“It’s a fair distance considering the steep terrain.” 

“You always know just what to say,” Clint smiles and gets his compass out of his bag. He starts walking south-east as briskly as he can. “You gonna be waiting for me?” 

“I am.” 

“Have some water ready, will you?” 

“Of course. You’ll be submitted for a full medical examination.”

Clint wishes his throat wasn’t too sore to groan dramatically. “Coulson,” he whines instead. 

“Standard procedure for exposure to an unknown environment, Barton.” Coulson clearly doesn’t care about his drama, and Clint sighs and falls mostly silent. Talking hurts too much to keep up a conversation, though he wants nothing more than to do just that. 

“How close am I?” he asks after a while. 

“Less than half a mile now,” Coulson tells him, “I’m sending a team out to meet you.” 

“Okay,” Clint whispers, “thanks.” 

He recognises one of the women in the team – Agent Harrison. He breaks into a relieved smile at the sight of the familiar face and lets one of the other men take his backpack as Harrison gives him a water bottle. He drains the whole thing in seconds, and gasps when he’s done. “You have no idea how much I needed that,” he tells her. “You got any more?” 

“Here.” Another agent hands him his water bottle, and Clint drains that as well, a little slower this time. 

“Thanks,” he says, heartfelt. 

“Have fun in the jungle?” Agent Harrison asks him, shooting him a grin as they start to walk back the way the team came from. 

“I partied all night,” Clint replies sarcastically. “What the hell happened to the signal? I thought these things were meant to be super-boosted or something like that.” 

“You vanished off the grid,” Agent Harrison shrugs her shoulders and makes a gesture with her arm to send two men ahead to make sure it was clear. “If those guards and their dogs hadn’t jumped up to follow you, we wouldn’t’ve even known you were alive.” 

“Gee, remind me to send them thank you notes.” Clint rolls his eyes and she laughs. 

“Pity you didn’t leave your sense of humour in the jungle.” 

“It’s in my bones,” he winks at her and she snorts, shaking her head. 

“Behave,” Coulson says in his ear, and Clint grins. 

The shakes hit him two days later when he’s back in New York in his own (seldom used) bed. He wakes up suddenly from a dream where he was with his old army unit, but in the tropical rainforest instead of the Middle East. He’d wound up getting shot, and the complete lack of light that greets him when he jerks awake sends him into a complete panic. He tries to get out of bed, but his feet tangle in the sheets and the world spins and doesn’t stop spinning when he hits the floor with a painful thud. He can feel his heart thumping too fast, and he can’t get himself up off the floor because the floor keeps tilting and he keeps overbalancing and it feels like the darkness has physical form, like it’s smothering him and he can’t breathe properly. 

A high-pitched whine rings in his ears, and he realises after a moment that it’s him making the noise, desperate for light, any light, any sort of light at all, _anything_ , god please, _anything_. By the time he manages to haul himself over to the other side of the room and hit the light switch, he’s hyperventilating, and it’s all he can do to curl up on the floor and shiver like he’s in the arctic. 

Panic attack, he thinks distantly, but he can’t grab onto the thought and focus on it because the floor’s still rocking like he’s on a boat and his heart won’t slow down. He feels himself break out in sweat and he shivers in a terrified ball on the floor for what feels like ages. When he finally calms down enough to crawl back into bed, he leaves the light on and swallows down the fear, but it still takes him a while to get back to sleep. 

The memory of crashing desperately through the unfamiliar, humid rainforest, fleeing from baying dogs and men with guns and no mercy with his heart hammering a tattoo into his ribs from sheer terror takes a long time to fade.


	2. Hey Man, Nice Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint gets a codename, moves up the ladder, and begins to hunt a spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Hey Man, Nice Shot](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpWlatljaI0) by Filter.

All SHIELD personnel have the option of therapy, but that’s really not Clint’s idea of a good time, so when Coulson suggests it, he snorts and raises a single eyebrow. “Worth a try,” Coulson says with a small smile, and gestures for Clint to take a seat opposite him. Coulson’s office isn’t a place Clint knows well – Coulson tends to just waylay him between training sessions or in the rec room – and it’s a pretty bare room, though freakishly well-organised. 

“You call me here for a reason, sir?” Clint asks. 

“I did indeed.” Coulson shuffles the papers on his desk and separates them into piles before pulling a file with Clint’s name on it from a drawer Clint can’t see. “I need to talk to you about that last mission.” 

“Am I in trouble?” Clint frowns, suddenly worried. He thought he’d done pretty well, all things considered. 

“Not for your actions,” Coulson reassures him, “but there is a security matter that’s come to light. It appears that our frequency was hacked by someone at the target’s house, probably a member of the security team there.” 

“I thought they didn’t have anyone that sophisticated,” Clint frowns. “The briefing file said the target was only guarded by thugs and lackeys, no one special.” 

“And that information was correct, up to a point,” Coulson opens the file and glances through it, keeping it tilted so that Clint can’t read anything. It’s annoying, but Clint understands. Files are highly confidential, especially files belonging to agents who perform sensitive work like him. “The point is, someone hacked the frequency and heard every word we exchanged after the signal cleared.” 

“They heard my name,” Clint realises.

 Coulson nods. “They did.” 

“Shit.” 

“There are steps we can now take.” Coulson closes the file and lays it flat on the desk, looking Clint right in the eye. “And there are options that present themselves. You are not the first agent to have their identity compromised.” 

“It’s a big deal though, right?” Clint remembers all the times in training that it had been drilled into him – names were important. You do not give up your name. Names can always be traced. 

“In this case, you were lucky,” Coulson doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. Clint relaxes slightly, because that expression never precedes bad news. “No one saw your face. They heard your voice, distorted by static, but that’s not enough for anyone to go on. Your appearance is still safe. It’s just your name that’s been compromised.” 

“You’re saying I need to change my name?” Clint raises his eyebrows. 

“In a manner of speaking.” Coulson clasps his hands and shrugs. “Agents who have been truly compromised are not cut loose from SHIELD. We treat our people better than that. Compromised agents merely cease to do much field work. You can stay on at SHIELD under your own name, but for further missions in the field, you need a code name. Several agents have them, usually those with a particular calling card. Your preferred weapon is quite a distinctive calling card.” 

Clint grins, relaxing properly. “So all I need to do is get a code name? That’s not so bad.” 

“I never said that it was going to be,” Coulson’s lips twitch. “I need a code name from you by the end of the week, sooner rather than later.” 

“I’ve got an idea,” Clint says, barely holding back a laugh. 

“Oh?” Coulson raises an eyebrow. 

“What do you think about _Hawkeye_?” 

 

 

Once again, he lives a double life. Clint Barton turns down the offer of an apartment outside the SHIELD base in order to settle in more comfortably with the agents who live there with him. He starts up the casual cocktail/general drinking Friday with another agent called Mike Pawlkowski, and pushes beer on everyone else until they give in and accept that the rec room becomes a bar on Friday nights. It’s as popular with the agents as it is unpopular with the trainees, who get bullied into taking shots until they pass out as an introduction to life at SHIELD. Clint Barton spars in the mornings, works in the gym in the afternoons, and avoids his paperwork just to get Coulson or one of the other handlers to chase him because he likes to practise his evasion tactics. Clint Barton gets a SHIELD-issued laptop and an mp3 player and starts buying the CDs of all the old tapes he used to have. He keeps his headphones in almost constantly, and his library of music grows weekly. 

Hawkeye flies to more countries than he can count, passes through cities and towns that blur into lines of shop fronts and houses in various shades of brick and glass and stone, falling down and being built. Hawkeye infiltrates buildings in total silence and leaves arrows behind him all over the world. He is grim, quiet, and professional, evading security and government with an ease born of constant practise. Hawkeye makes a name for himself among the enemies of SHIELD (of which there are no shortage) – his kills are quick and clean, his presence a spark that leaves whole organisations in flames behind him. Hawkeye rises through the ranks of SHIELD quickly, and his work becomes something to aspire to. 

Clint has been an agent for just over a year when he’s finally invited to the Helicarrier. 

“You’re sure this is safe?” he asks Coulson, who’s explained what the Helicarrier is on the flight over. 

“It’s been tested,” Coulson tells him, amused, and ushers him out onto the deck. “It’s perfectly safe.” 

“And I’m here because Fury wants to see me?” 

“You’re here because Maria Hill wants to interview you.” 

“Why?” Clint squints against the wind and looks out over the water. He can’t believe this thing will be able to get up in the air with no kind of run-up. 

“To potentially give you a higher security clearance.” 

“How many are there?” Clint looks at him, interested. His own clearance level was three. 

“Six.” 

“So I do well, I get bumped up to a four?” 

“It’s possible. If you do very well, you might get bumped up to a five.” 

Clint whistled. “Sweet. Any advice?” 

“Do _not_ try to charm Agent Hill, or make out to be someone you’re not in any sort of way,” Coulson warns. “Just be honest. And think before you open your mouth.” 

“Okay,” Clint nods and looks around as a siren starts to wail. “Is that normal?” 

“We need to head inside now,” Coulson explains. “The Helicarrier is about to fly.” 

“You’re kidding me,” Clint grins and makes his way towards the edge. “I can stay outside while it lifts off, right?” 

Coulson sighs, but Clint doesn’t miss his smile, so he takes that as permission and goes to the railing to peer over the edge. Something’s happening in the water; some sort of turbine is rising to the surface, and Clint’s eyes widen as rotors begin to spin faster than he can see. “Holy shit!” he laughs and ducks as water churned up by the rotors sprays up over the side and splashes him. There’s another turbine further down, and he’d be willing to bet there are two more on the other side of the deck. He only just holds back a gasp as the deck shifts and slowly begins to rise. The noise is phenomenal, and he whoops into the wind. The Helicarrier picks up speed, and in moments they’re high over the ocean, and Coulson taps his shoulder and jerks his head towards the door that leads inside. 

“That was the coolest thing I have ever seen in my life,” Clint tells him seriously as soon as the door closes behind them and blocks out the howling of the wind. 

“I did get that impression,” Coulson nods, and Clint laughs. “Come on. You’re due to be interviewed in ten minutes.” 

“How big is this place?” Clint asks as they come to the end of the corridor and it splits to stretch for a long way down both ends. 

“Big,” Coulson says shortly, and leads him to an elevator. “You’ll be spending the next week or so here if this goes well, and the night if it doesn’t, so you’ll have a chance to explore if you want to.” 

“Does this place have a good ventilation system?” 

“Don’t even think about it.” 

 

 

Clint’s lounging comfortably in his chair when the door behind him opens. He turns to look and gets up when he sees a woman in a blue uniform walk in. There’s no doubt that this is Maria Hill. She’s tall, slim, and wears her hair pulled back in a bun. She’s got an expression on her face that tells Clint right away that she is not a woman to be messed with. But what would he expect from Director Fury’s second in command? 

“Agent Barton?” she says. 

“Ma’am,” he nods, holding out a hand. She shakes it – firm grip – and nods for him to sit as she goes behind the desk and sits down gracefully. 

“You’ve come a long way very quickly, agent,” she says without preamble. He doesn’t reply, and she goes on. “You finished the training in less than two years, an almost record-breaking time. Your record is almost spotless, with the exception of the Papua New Guinea incident, and you’ve become one of the most-requested assassins in SHIELD in just a year of working for us. It’s an impressive career so far.” She gives him a narrow-eyed, assessing look. He tries not to shift in place and resists the urge to sit up straighter. “Anything to say on the subject, Agent Barton?” 

“Um,” for once he can’t come up with anything smart to say, “what is the record-breaking time for completing training?” 

“Thirteen months.” 

“Who managed that?” 

“I did.” Agent Hill’s eyes dare him to say anything, and he wisely changes the subject. 

“I’m just doing my job.” 

“Is that all this is to you?” Agent Hill waves a hand at the wall and leans back in her chair. He wonders if she ever smiles. “Just a job?” 

Clint hesitates for a moment before answering. “I guess it started out as a job, like the army but with more emphasis on the individual. But…I like it.” 

“You like to kill people?” 

“That’s just the end result sometimes. I like the process, I guess. I’m good at it. I like doing what I’m good at.” 

“Do you feel you wouldn’t be good at anything in civilian life?” 

“Not really. I don’t know how to be a normal civilian.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“You’ve read my file, right?” Clint smiles slightly. “I was a civilian for ten years, and I was too young to remember most of it.” 

“It says in your file that you spent roughly a year as a civilian between leaving Carson’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders and joining up,” she raises an eyebrow.

Clint nods slowly. “Wasn’t really a civilian though, not really. Didn’t settle anywhere.” 

“So why join the army?” 

Something about Agent Hill’s tone makes Clint pause, suspicious. SHIELD is famed for knowing far more than they should be able to know. Coulson had told him to be honest, but two bodies in an alleyway aren’t things he wants to own up to. “I knew I couldn’t keep driving forever,” he says, which is true. “Joining up seemed like a good way to settle and still keep moving.” 

“That’s all?” Agent Hill asks, and yeah, she definitely knows something, but Clint really, really doesn’t want to own up to anything. But Coulson had told him not to lie. 

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, putting his hands on the table. “Can we be straight with each other, ma’am?” 

She doesn’t smile, but she looks like she’s thinking about it. Clint takes that as a good sign. “I’d appreciate that, Agent Barton.” 

“I was travelling with someone at the time – you probably already know that –” 

“Miss Lorelai Simpson, yes.” 

“Lorelai?” Clint stares at her. “ _Lorelai?_ Huh. I never knew that was her full name. Uh, anyway, I was with Lori, and something happened in Ohio. I did something, something not entirely legal, and we split. I joined the army because I wanted to start fresh.” 

“I’d say killing two men is a little more serious than ‘not entirely legal’, wouldn’t you?” Agent Hill doesn’t look surprised at all, and since he’s not in handcuffs, Clint figures he might as well spill. Coulson always says SHIELD takes care of its own. He’d prefer not to test that so seriously, but shit happens. 

“They were going to hurt Lori,” he tells Agent Hill. “I didn’t really think it through.” 

“Clearly.” She leans forward and meets his eyes squarely. “Do you regret your actions, Agent Barton?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Why not?”

“Because they were going to hurt Lori.” Clint can see Agent Hill’s acceptance in the tiny shift of her expression. “Am I going to be arrested, ma’am?” 

“There’s no evidence to put you at the crime scene, Agent Barton,” she leans back and the smallest of smiles graces her face. “SHIELD looks out for its own. We wanted to know whether you would try to hide this from us if pressed.” 

“Was this a test?” 

“It was.” 

“Did I pass?” 

“You did,” she nods, “but this interview isn’t over yet. I’ve still got some questions for you.” 

Clint’s in the windowless room with Agent Hill for another forty minutes, grilled on every topic relevant to his job. Agent Hill wants to know about his preference for the bow over guns, his acrobatic training from the circus, and his reactions to certain situations. She asks him about how he trains, probes him about the motivation behind his tendency to spy on his fellow agents and whoever else is in the building. She gets him to tell her about the army’s influence on his sniping technique, and at the end she takes him to the shooting range and asks him to demonstrate his archery skills for her. 

Someone’s already brought his bow down for him, and he strings it up happily, shooting the bull’s eye consistently on every target that presents itself. 

“How small can the target be?” Agent Hill asks him as the moving targets are pulled out of sight. 

“You mean what’s the smallest thing I can hit?” Clint asks, feeling a lot more comfortable with his bow in his hand. She nods and he grins. “Well, the ringmaster used to throw apples for me.” 

Agent Hill nods to someone over his shoulder, and Clint turns to see a man in a SHIELD uniform holding a bag of balls ranging in size from grapefruit to cherry. “Think you could hit these?” she asks him, and he nods. 

“Sure thing.” 

“Wilson,” she nods to the man holding the bag. “O’Brian, Peters! Down here.” 

Another man and a woman with a blonde ponytail come down from the observation platform, where a small crowd has gathered to watch Clint’s show. Agent Hill turns back to him. “You think you can hit targets of different sizes thrown from three different places?” 

Clint looks over at the three SHIELD agents each taking balls from the bag and moving to stand at the sides of the range, safe behind the steel shields. “I don’t miss.” 

“Let’s see.” Agent Hill checks that each agent is in place and then shouts, “Go!” 

Clint just has time to get an arrow to the string when the first ball, a big grapefruit-sized one, sails out into the open. His arrow goes straight through it, and he adjusts his shot for the next ball, a satsuma-sized one. After that, the world fades out of existence. His eyes are on the range, on the balls, on the bow in his hand and the string under his fingers. It sings under his skin, the speed he’s shooting faster and harder than he’s ever done before, and as long as there are still arrows in the container at his feet he can keep going, can keep nailing the white balls dead centre, keep proving his worth. The balls suddenly stop appearing, and Clint pauses, arrow at the ready. He doesn’t relax, because no one’s said anything, and his actions are vindicated when a ball the size of a grape flies out into his window. His eyes narrow and track the path of movement, and the release of the string under his fingers is smooth and true. The arrow flies and pins the tiny ball to the back wall, and Agent Hill says, “Okay.”

Clint breathes out as he lowers his arms, and glances over his shoulder at the observation platform when the sound of applause reaches his ears. There are about twenty people in blue uniforms clapping and grinning excitedly, and for a moment it’s like he’s back in the circus again, the range a ring, the stands behind thick glass. He grins and takes a bow, unable to resist. When he turns back to Agent Hill, she’s not smiling, but she looks pleased. 

“Very impressive,” she says. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

“Leave your bow,” she nods to his hand, still curled tight around the weapon. “Follow me.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Clint puts the bow on the floor next to the almost empty container of arrows and walks half a step behind Agent Hill as they leave the range. 

“You ever find the bow difficult to handle in the field?” she asks as they walk. “Too big, or too unwieldy?” 

“No more so than a rifle, ma’am,” he tells her honestly. “It’s not that much bigger than an M16, really, and it’s much lighter.” 

“True,” she nods and leads him to a set of stairs with a door at the top. It’s unmarked, but Clint can tell as soon as they walk in that it’s an admin office. There’s too much paper for it to be anything else. 

“Barton, C,” Agent Hill tells a woman at the front desk. “Code name: Hawkeye.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman nods and taps away at her computer. After two seconds she nods. “Got it.” 

“Security clearance update,” Agent Hill says crisply. “Three to five.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman types something in and Clint resists the urge to punch the air. The woman behind the desk pulls out a small chunky device with a screen and a stylus attached on a string. She beckons Clint forward and hands it to him “Sign,” she says, pointing. He does so, and she signs it as well before tapping a few keys and then nodding at Agent Hill. “Done.” 

“Thank you,” Agent Hill nods and motions for Clint to follow her out. “This clearance update will have a significant impact on the nature of the missions you’ll be sent on,” she tells him as they go back down the stairs. “There will be more emphasis on gathering information and infiltration, and you will be required to attend briefing and de-briefing meetings with your senior handler rather than just reading a file. Your mission reports will have to be more detailed. You will very rarely have one handler for the duration of a single mission, because your missions will be longer than they are now, possibly extending for months at a time. If any of this is disagreeable to you, you need to discuss it with your senior handler.” 

“Who’s that, ma’am?” Clint asks, trying to keep up with all this new information. 

“Agent Coulson,” she stops in front of another flight of stairs. “He’ll be upstairs in his office. I’m needed on the bridge. Agent Barton?” she turns to face him properly, and he meets her gaze. “Agent Coulson has taken a special interest in your progress at SHIELD. He would never normally find time to handle a field agent of such a low security clearance on such a regular basis. He’s taken a chance on you, and so far, you’ve done well. One might even say exceptionally so.” 

“Ma’am?” Clint asks when she pauses. 

“Keep doing what you’re doing, Agent Barton,” Agent Hill says after a moment. “And tell Coulson that Fernandez owes him twenty bucks.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint nods and starts making his way upstairs when she turns away and walks briskly down the corridor. He’s not sure what to make of everything she’s just said. He didn’t know that Coulson was particularly high up on the ladder – he thought he was a handler like Tenner and the others he got paired with for his missions. He finds Coulson’s office without any problems and knocks before entering. 

“Come in.” 

“Fernandez owes you twenty bucks,” Clint says by way of greeting as he walks in and slumps into the first available seat he sees. 

Coulson smiles, pleased and somewhat sly. “You got upgraded to a five.” 

“I feel like I’ve been x-rayed and drained of energy,” Clint complains, looking over at him. 

“Agent Hill can have that effect on her interviewees,” Coulson agrees. 

“So who’s Fernandez?” Clint asks after a moment. “And why does he owe you twenty bucks?” 

“Agent Fernandez is a colleague of mine,” Coulson goes back to whatever he’s writing, glancing occasionally at the computer screen, “and he believed that investing so much time in your career would be a doomed undertaking. I have just proved him wrong.” 

“Was I an experiment?” Clint raises his eyebrows and puts on an offended tone. 

“In a way,” Coulson admits freely, putting his pen down to type something in. “I don’t usually involve myself so directly with agents on a clearance level below four.” 

“Wow, this security clearance stuff is a real hierarchy, isn’t it?” Clint leans his chair back on two legs. “What level are you?” 

“Six.” 

Clint stares at him. “You’re actually one of the top dogs, aren’t you? How did I not know this?” 

“You never thought to ask,” Coulson looks back at him calmly. “You were quite understandably involved in your own life. Your tendency to focus only on what’s relevant to you or the mission is a good quality in a sniper.” 

Clint frowns. “I’m gonna have to be more big-picture now, aren’t I?” 

“Adaption is another one of your good qualities,” Coulson goes back to his paperwork. “I have every faith in your abilities.” 

“Thanks,” Clint lets the chair drop back onto all four legs and grins at Coulson. “Hey, does this place have a bar?” 

“It does not.” 

“There’s nowhere on this flying aircraft carrier I can get myself a celebration drink?” 

“You could always try the lounge, or the common room,” Coulson says, “they both have open fridges. But I forbid you from trying to instate casual Fridays here.” 

“Casual cocktails and general drinking Fridays,” Clint corrects him. “Besides, it’s a Tuesday.” 

“Would that really stop you?” 

Clint laughs. “Probably not. Come get a drink with me, Coulson.” 

“I’m busy, Barton, in case the piles of paperwork on my desk escaped your attention.” 

“When will you be done?”

“If I’m lucky, by midnight.” 

“Wow, that sucks. Leave it for an hour and get a drink with me.” 

“No.” 

“Please?” 

“No.” 

“Pretty please?” 

“No.” 

“Pretty please with –” 

“Finish that sentence and I will have you escorted to the edge of the top deck and thrown off.” 

Clint pouts. “You’re no fun.” 

Coulson looks up and shakes his head, but the corner of his lips is turned up. “One drink.” 

Clint jumps to his feet. “Victory!” he crows. 

“Don’t speak too soon,” Coulson tells him, getting out from behind his desk. “This will be a good opportunity to show you the layout so you know where your briefings and meetings will be happening for the next week.” 

“Always a hidden agenda,” Clint sighs as he follows Coulson out of his office. 

“I am a secret agent,” the shadow of a smirk touches Coulson’s expression, and Clint grins. 

“Where’s this common room then?” 

 

 

There are definitely more briefings. Clint spends more time sitting at large tables with men and women in sharp SHIELD uniforms and dark suits than he cares to count, but he suffers through the tedium because occasionally they’ll give him information he can work with when he finally gets sent out into the field. Agent Hill wasn’t kidding about his missions being longer either. Before his upgrade, he never spent more than a week on a job. Now a week is the minimum. It’s harder, requires much more stamina and patience, but patience is something Clint has plenty of. He’s well-versed in sitting still in an uncomfortable position for hours at a time in complete silence. He doesn’t think about other things outside of the job, the target, the goal. He focuses in on his window with a strength of concentration that impresses his handlers and moves him further up in the ranks. It’s hard work, yes, but he’s good at it. 

The missions now require more cover – no more being dropped into a hostile environment with just his clothes and weapons and an earpiece to talk him through. Now he gets new documents each time. Passports, driver’s licences, visas, sometimes apartments, once a two-bedroom bungalow in a slice of suburbia so perfect it might have been cut from the pages of a magazine. Clint and Hawkeye can’t stay separate anymore, and that’s probably the hardest thing to adapt to. He can’t just draw a line in the sand and hop over it every time he leaves and comes back again. He has to spend too much time under cover as a civilian, and to pass at that he has to be Clint, not Hawkeye. But Hawkeye has to be there all the time, close enough to spring to life if something goes wrong, or if the call comes through that he needs to make his move _now_ , the target is out of the house, go go go! 

Civilian living, even fake, is the really hard thing. It takes Clint several missions before he really gets into the swing of it, and the thing that helps him with that is TV. When the target goes to sleep in the apartment across the street, Clint shifts the TV in front of the window so he can keep an eye on the target in case they get up, and switches on the box. TV teaches him about the lives that civilians live. Friends, Hope and Faith, American Idol – these are all shows he peers at with a sort of detached interest before he discovers cartoons. He watched The Simpsons with Lori in the motels with functioning TV sets, but now he discovers Clone High, The Grim Adventures of Bill and Mandy, and Teen Titans. He’s in Boston when Xiaolin Showdown debuts in November, and he’s immediately hooked.

He suddenly understands how civilians can bear to live the way they do, in dull repetitions of daily action. Wake up, go to work, come home, eat, sleep. Repeat daily until dead. He’s never known a life like that, so he can’t really miss it, but he does envy the people he sees sometimes, when he hasn’t slept for three days and he’s bleeding from a knife wound and the target is on the move and he has to run too hard to keep up. Civilians don’t have to worry about things like bullets and international smuggling rings. They have the luxury of ignorance and comfort in their own homes. 

They actually have homes. 

Most of them anyway. Clint’s not naïve enough to think that all civilians live happy, suburban lives. But he has to resist cursing every single one of them when he’s crawling through the unimaginable stench of a sewer, searching for a labyrinth of underground tunnels that apparently connect on. “Not sure I can imagine a bunch of businessmen doing this to meet for drinks, Sitwell,” he hisses, trying desperately not to breathe more than absolutely necessary. He’s going to stink for weeks, he’s sure. 

“They’ll have access to the tunnels through cleaner paths, Hawkeye,” Sitwell tells him, and Clint hates him for being far away in a warm chair with a clean suit. Bastard, he almost says, but swallows it down when he catches the edge of an unfamiliar sound. He taps the earpiece twice, the signal to tell Sitwell that he’d seen or something and wasn’t able to speak yet. He moves through the thick oozing waste quietly, keeping low and to the shadows. Around a corner, light appears, and Clint would grin if he wasn’t worried about getting shit in his teeth. 

He kills five of the assembled men before they get control of themselves and start shooting back, and he immobilises the rest with arrows to their legs and arms. “No,” he says sharply, kicking a phone from someone’s fingers into the gutter. “Now,” he says, squatting down next to the man he’s been trailing for three weeks, “let’s you and I have a little talk. Somewhere private, I think.” He knocks everyone else out, ties them up securely and spaces them at regular intervals along the wall and puts hidden pressure pads between them so he’ll know if they start trying to get closer to each other to talk. 

The man threatens, then cries, then begs, and finally comes around. Men like him aren’t good under pressure, which is really what torture mostly is. Clint’s surprisingly good at it, because most of it is about instilling fear and panic by telling them what he _could_ do. A few demonstrations are necessary to show them what pain is, and it usually isn’t long before they sing like birds. Clint calls Sitwell for a clean-up crew, and he takes the longest shower of his life before he gets a jet back to the Helicarrier. 

The briefings and de-briefings can go on for days at a time if the mission he was on was particularly important. He never thought there were so many shadowy organisations in the world. Not even the governments of the countries he’s sent to know exactly what their people are getting up to, and whispers of a power directing Director Fury reach his ears after a while. The World Security Council. He doesn’t like the sound of it, but he likes Fury. Fury’s a soldier, and a spy, and he attends most of the de-briefings and makes good points. He understands the limits and abilities of the agents under him, and Clint begins to trust him almost as much as he trusts Coulson, who he still trusts more than anyone else at SHIELD apart from Lucy in catering, who never serves decaf, and doesn’t take bribes to do so from anyone on April Fools’. 

Clint reads files that have to be shredded and burned after reading about secrets that would rip the world apart if they got out. The Zodiac Cartel, HYDRA, the Hand, the Ten Rings, and AIM are names that become familiar to him, and he becomes heavily involved in bringing down cells of extremists run by the Zodiac Cartel. Clint’s been working as a level five agent for a year and a half when they hit a serious block. 

The list of people SHIELD would want out of the way if they could get anywhere near them is quite short, because anyone on that list is seriously good, and very capable of evading capture and/or assassination. Due to her recent work, Black Widow has just shot right up to the top of that list. 

Fury is practically spitting in the briefing for Clint’s next mission. “We need her gone!” he snarls. “I don’t care how it happens, I don’t care how many people we need to put onto this. That woman has just successfully put us back about three years! If she gets to Yelmilov or Maslak we’re in the dark! I want every available agent on the ground looking for her. Coulson, you’re in charge. Everything else can wait.” 

Coulson nods and closes a file quietly. “Yes, sir.” 

“The moment we’ve got solid intel on where she is, it’s your show, Barton,” Fury turns his eye on Clint, who nods, grim-faced. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“This may be the most important mission of your life, agent,” Fury tells him, eye burning. “I don’t care if you have to bring down half of the damn country on her head – take the Widow out.” He sweeps from the room in a blur of black leather and tightly-wound anger, and everyone else lets out small sighs of relief. Fury on a bad day is not something anyone wants to get in the way of. Clint feels sorry for any technician who tries to waylay the director today. 

He takes a course on basic Russian before he leaves. He’s been there before, but not for a length of time when speaking the language became necessary. 

“Do you really need to be able to say, ‘nobody move, or so help me god I will scalp every single one of you’?” his teacher asks, giving him a pained look. 

“Yes,” Clint says firmly. “How do I ask for more coffee again?” 

He’s good at soaking up information quickly and dumping it just as fast. Most SHIELD agents are fluent in at least two other languages. Clint knows sparse bits and pieces from dozens, but he’d be hard pressed to differentiate between Spanish and Portuguese in a tight spot. It occasionally gets him into trouble, but most of the time he can remember enough to get by. He remembers a few words of Russian from the times he’s breezed through in the past, but he needs to know a lot more now. He spends the time he’s given while other agents are scouting for the Black Widow learning to speak her language and reading up on everything they know about her. 

Black Widow, real name unknown, but possibly Natalia Romanova, Nadine Roman, or Natalia Shostokova. Most likely a renegade from the highly confidential Red Room facility, which had been initiated in the early Soviet era in order to train female operatives for espionage and other stealth activities, including assassination. All of the Black Widow operatives SHIELD and their associates had encountered in the past had been incredibly deadly and had avoided capture above all else. They were all intelligent, fast, and chose suicide rather than being taken alive. Their loyalty to their shadowy masters was paramount, and they always acted on orders, never by their own initiative. 

The Black Widow who had killed five of the people that had been instrumental in getting SHIELD further along the process to destroying the Zodiac Cartel for good was an exception, and since her appearance no other Black Widows had been heard of. She worked alone, and as far as SHIELD could tell, she worked for a variety of employers. They had almost been able to talk to one, but she had killed him before they could get there. The only photographs they had of her were blurry, CCTV images. She never left a trail, and she disappeared after committing her crimes like a ghost. 

Clint runs through the list of her supposed victims (she never left a calling card, and nothing could be proven) and whistles, long and slow. Poison, strangulation, shooting, drowning, stabbing – the list went on. The Black Widow used anything and everything to kill, and she always got the job done. Sometimes her victims suffered, sometimes they didn’t. Clint wonders whether she enjoys killing slowly when she’s in the mood, and smiles. He’s interested now. 

Coulson is surprised when Clint asks for details of the Widow’s targets, but he hands the information over without qualms. The slow deaths, Clint learns, are meted out to those who hurt others. Thieves, unlucky fools, and other such people get killed quickly, and Clint somehow gets the impression, looking at the photograph of a man with his neck snapped cleanly in his bed, that such work is so quick because it’s second nature to her. Those she makes suffer are torturers, beaters, and rapists nine times out of ten. 

Clint listens to _Fighter_ by Christina Aguilera, _Girl_ by Tori Amos, and thinks about the woman who managed to escape the most psychologically brutal institution in the world and set up a life of her own, answering to no one and choosing her own contracts. He’s become more involved in this mission than any before. He doesn’t miss the frowns Coulson gives him in the briefings as they coordinate the operation and close in on the Black Widow. 

When he finally gets sent to Russia, it’s to a city called Volgograd, south of Moscow. It’s November and bitterly cold, the temperature falling almost daily. Snow lies in thin greyish piles on the roads and sidewalks, and Clint doesn’t have time to switch on his TV in the tiny apartment SHIELD has found for him. There are SHIELD agents peppered through the city, but he’s the only one allowed within two miles of the Widow at any given time. She’s notoriously flighty and she hasn’t gotten to where she is today by not paying attention to her intuition when it tells her she’s being watched. 

Clint has to be more careful than he’s ever been before. 

He first sees her in a café. He’s eating a pastry, coffee steaming on the table in front of him, and he looks up when the bell over the door trills. It’s snowing outside, so her hood is up. He doesn’t realise it’s her for a moment, but then she slides the hood down and shakes out a mane of dark red hair, and he knows. She glances around the inside, doesn’t catch his eye, goes to the counter and orders something in a low voice. She doesn’t stay – she gets it in a take-away cup and pulls her hood up before she leaves. Clint doesn’t follow her. He finishes his pastry, drinks his coffee, and goes back to his apartment. 

“Seen,” he says casually to Coulson over the phone that evening. “Damn pretty.” 

“You didn’t trip over your own feet, did you?” Coulson asks dryly. They haven’t worked on a code more complicated than a few basic phrases for certain situations, but they know each other’s voices so well by now that Clint knows exactly what he means and grins, watching his microwave hum in the quiet apartment. 

“Nah,” Clint has the phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder. The microwave pings and he pulls out the steaming tray, neatly partitioned into sections of little carrots, little broccoli, rice, and some sort of meaty mulch that smells like gravy. “I’m off – there’s a TV show on later I want to watch.” 

“Check in,” Coulson says. 

“I will,” Clint puts the tray on the table and spears one of the tiny carrots with his fork. “Later.” He hangs up and pops the carrot in his mouth. It tastes of hot water, and he sighs long-sufferingly. He thinks of New York hotdogs and the meatloaf they serve in the Helicarrier canteen and eats the rest of his tray in moody silence. 

According to the intel, the Widow is staying in a hotel near the centre. Clint examined the building earlier that week, so he knows how to get a view into her room. He’s never been in a colder environment as he crouches on the fire escape on the building opposite and keeps his eyes open, body alert. He’s in a dangerous place. The gap between the buildings isn’t very wide. He wouldn’t be able to see her from the roof, so he’s had to move further down than he’d like. It’s dark and snowy – she’d only be able to see him if she turned out the lights and stared out exactly where he was, but he still feels too vulnerable. It’s a risk he’s okay with taking for the chance to gain some more information. 

The lights in her room turn on at half past eleven. Clint has hand warmers packed under his coat to stop himself freezing, and only his eyes are exposed. He tries to remember the sticky humidity of the tropics, the rainforest in Papua New Guinea. He can’t. He huffs and concentrates instead on the hotel window. The woman he had seen in the café is on the phone, talking steadily with a small frown on her face. She looks determined, and a little angry. Clint stays absolutely still as she comes over to the window, still barking into the phone, and yanks the curtains shut. Her shadow recedes out of sight, and he relaxes slightly. He can wait. 

He watches her all night. She opens her curtains at six-thirty the next morning and showers in under five minutes. When she comes to the window next, her hair is wet and straight, stark against the pale bathrobe. He wonders if she ever smiles when there’s no need for it. She leaves the hotel ten minutes later, dressed warmly against the biting cold. Clint waits for her to be long gone before going back to his apartment and taking a hot shower. “I hate the cold,” he mutters to the mouldy tiles, and bundles himself up in three towels, sitting in front of a space heater to call Coulson. 

“Fun night?” Coulson asks without greeting. 

“The funnest,” Clint replies sarcastically. “No, dead boring. Nothing happening. We secure?” 

“As we’ll ever be.” 

“She was on the phone, not looking happy. That’s it. Nothing exciting, didn’t leave at any point, got up very early, went out.” 

“We’ve got eyes on her now.” 

“Not too many, right?” 

“We’re good so far,” Coulson sighs, and Clint can just see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yellow’s in the big town.” 

Yelmilov’s in Moscow. Clint stilled. “Think she’ll bite?” 

“Be ready to move fast, just in case.” 

“She’ll bite,” Clint doesn’t even know why he’s so certain, but he remembers the way she was speaking on the phone last night, the slant of her dark eyebrows over her eyes, and he’s surer than he’s ever been regarding the movements of a target. “She’ll bite for sure. Paint me yellow, C.” 

Coulson doesn’t reply for a moment, and Clint knows he’s weighing up the risks of working on the intelligence they have verses Clint’s gut instinct, strengthened by seeing the target in movement. It was a very difficult decision. The whole mission could ride on it, because there’s no question of any of the other agents in the area taking on the Black Widow. Only Hawkeye is qualified for the job. “Alright,” Coulson says finally, as calm as if they’d been discussing the weather. “I’ll have someone pick you up.” 

“ETA?” 

“Twenty minutes good?” 

“Plenty. See you soon.” 

“Hope so.” Coulson hangs up, and Clint lowers the phone slowly, collecting himself. He can feel the tension in the soles of his feet, and it’s only going to grow the closer he gets to Moscow. She’ll make her move on Yelmilov there, he knows it. Maslak’s in Switzerland at the moment. If they’re both on her hit list, she’ll definitely go for Yelmilov first. Clint’s outside on the grey-snowed sidewalk when a battered silver car pulls up. He knocks once on the window and gets three knocks back, but he still checks the agent’s face before getting in properly. 

“The heating on full in this thing?” he asks, bundling his gear into the back before sliding into the passenger seat next to Agent Fisher. 

“She’s an old car,” Fisher says apologetically, patting the dashboard. Clint huffs and goes to sleep for the drive to the airport, and sleeps on the flight to Moscow as well. He dreams of trying to shoot spiders, but his arrows turn into flies the closer they get to the web.


	3. A Web Of Skin And Nails And Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint dances with a spider and gets stabbed for his trouble, Natasha makes a life-changing deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Lounge](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JpKLiTtQxKo) by Regina Spektor.

The next day, Coulson calls him just after he’s had breakfast. He’s in a hotel this time. If the Black Widow goes after Yelmilov, Clint will have to take her out. There’s no point in getting an apartment. 

“She’s in town.” 

Clint nods and glances at his bow, laid out on the sofa. “Shall I tail yellow?” 

“There’s a function tonight,” Coulson tells him. He sounds stressed. “Black tie, very fancy. He’ll be there.” 

“And so will she,” Clint says quietly. 

“So will you.” 

“Gee, thanks. Will you be my date, C?” he grins. Coulson will hear it in his voice even though he can’t see him. 

“I’m out of your league,” Coulson tells him, and Clint can hear the smile in his voice. 

The function they’ll all be attending is _very_ fancy. He gets a tux delivered to his door from an anonymous source, and his shoes are so shiny he can see his face in them. He goes around the back first, through the kitchens and up to the roof where he hides his bow and quiver. He’s got a vague plan in mind for getting the Widow away from the other guests, Yelmilov in particular. He’s very glad he learned how to dance, especially when he arrives in the main hall and gets swept onto the floor almost immediately by an English woman with a large smile. 

“Beautiful diamonds, aren’t they?” she looks up at the chandelier, and Clint relaxes slightly, because she’s a SHIELD agent. 

“Divine,” he tells her in Russian, and she squeezes his hand encouragingly. 

He dances with several other women, none of whom know who he really is. He tells them he’s an American with the Harrison party, and they all accept that line easily enough. He locates Yelmilov in the crowd of black suits that shift lazily around the edge of the floor, holding wine glasses in their hands and talking to each other in a never-slowing rumble. Occasionally someone will throw their head back and laugh, but Clint doesn’t let anything distract him. 

He notices when the Black Widow comes in. Few could ignore her. She’s late, and makes a wonderful entrance. She’s wearing a floor-length black dress that glitters with every movement, her hair pinned up and diamonds sparkling at her throat and ears. Her narrow eyes survey the room like an empress, and Clint feels his breath catch in his chest. She is something else. 

She makes the rounds, behaves like the other beautiful women there, dances, smiles, makes small talk and sips from a glass of red wine only a shade darker than her hair. And Clint’s ready when she starts moving in on the men around Yelmilov. She’s smart, Clint thinks, watching as she sways with one of Yelmilov’s associates, throwing back her head to expose a pale throat when she laughs. She’s art in motion, and she’s exceptionally good, putting Yelmilov at ease by dancing with a couple of his friends and mingling with other groups before starting towards him, purpose in her eyes. And Clint’s ready. 

He appears at her side with the crooked smile he’s been told is his most charming, and holds out a hand. “Dance with me?” he asks in what’s probably appalling Russian. This close to Yelmilov’s crowd, it would look odd if she suddenly refused after dancing with so many, so she smiles and puts her hand in his, allowing him to lead her to the floor. 

“Beautiful evening,” he says, swaying with her among dozens of other couples. 

“It is,” she agrees, meeting his eyes and smiling a small smile, calculated to make him try harder. He’s always been good at reading people. To her, he’s just an inconvenient distraction. Luckily, he knows just what to say to get her attention. It took months to get, but SHIELD has given him a phrase to say that is apparently guaranteed to catch her interest. 

“The Tsar’s palace is burning,” he says casually, and her rhythm doesn’t falter for a second, but her eyes meet his and _burn_. Oh, he’s got her attention alright. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she says in a low voice. He has to translate slowly in his head before he can reply. 

“Follow me?” He wishes he knew more Russian. 

It seems to be enough though, and she nods. “Let’s finish the dance.” 

He nods, and they continue to step elegantly across the polished floor, one of her hands gentle in his, the other on his shoulder. He has no doubts that she could kill him right there if she wanted to, but whatever the phrase meant, it’s holding her off for now. The music ends, they part, and she gestures for him to lead the way off the floor. He bows his head and walks her to the door he came in through from the servants’ corridors. He motions for her to go first – he does _not_ want her walking behind him out of his sight – and she acquiesces gracefully. She allows him to lead her up to the fire escape and onto the roof. As soon as the door closes behind them, he grabs his bow and slings the quiver over his shoulders. She watches, utterly calm, as he puts an arrow to the string, ready to draw back and release. 

He doesn’t like how calm she is. It means she believes she has the upper hand, and if the Black Widow believes that, it’s probably true. Knives strapped all the way up her thighs, he imagines. And if she’s this calm, it’s because she’s fast enough to use them on him before he can stop her. It’s not a nice thought, but this isn’t a nice job. 

Do the job, he thinks. She’s in the open, no one’s watching, they’re away from the guests – he should’ve released the arrow already. She should be dead by now. Instead, he’s just staring at her. She looks back at him, and after a while she raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You think you can kill me?” she asks, her Russian slow so that he can understand. 

“ _Da_.” 

She smirks slightly, a strand of hair coming loose from her pinned hair and blowing against her throat in the wind. It’s below freezing up in the open air, but she looks as comfortable as she had down in the warm hall. Clint’s already fighting against shivers. “Then why don’t you?” she asks, mocking. 

He frowns, then smiles slightly and lowers his bow a fraction. “You speak English, right?” he says, forgoing the Russian. “Think we could switch? My Russian isn’t that great.” 

“Of course, let’s make this all about your comfort,” she crosses her arms, and he raises his eyebrows, surprised. She doesn’t have a trace of an accent – in fact, she sounds perfectly American. He knows from his language tutors how difficult it is to erase accents when speaking in other languages. 

“Huh,” he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “What should I call you?” 

“You think we should be on a first-name basis?” she asks, smirk gone. She looks displeased, maybe a little unimpressed. 

“Why not?” he shrugs, not relaxing his grip on bow and arrow for a second. 

“Because there are only two ways this can go.” 

“And they are…?” 

“Either you kill me, or I kill you.” 

“Those are the only two options?” What the hell is he saying? 

“Yes.” No trace of doubt, no care at all. 

“Well that sucks,” oh god, what the hell _is_ he saying? “You ever considered a third option?” 

“And what do you have in mind?” she asks, supreme disdain radiating from her in waves. “We both abandon our respective masters; make a living as a freelancing double act?” 

At least one of them knows how ridiculous he sounds, he thinks, and forges on anyway because apparently he has the brain and survival instincts of a suicidal lemming. “I actually had something different in mind.” 

“Really.” Still unimpressed, okay, he can deal with that. 

“Have you ever considered a more permanent employment contract?” he asks, as casual as he dares. 

“With SHIELD?” she snorts. “You honestly think I’m that stupid?” 

“You wouldn’t’ve made it out of the Red Room if you were stupid,” he says, mouth too fast for his brain, which runs behind and realises that she thinks he’s trying to take her alive, not just kill her. And if she thinks he wants her alive, she’ll be even more dangerous. He doesn’t feel fast enough for this. He wishes he hadn’t led her to the roof – he’s in danger of losing feeling in his fingers if they’re up here for much longer. 

She narrows her eyes, still seemingly unfazed by the biting cold. “It’s Hawkeye, isn’t it?” 

“When I’m on the job.” 

“And off?” 

“Give me a chance and you’ll find out.” He makes a fast decision that he knows Coulson would seriously disapprove of, and lowers his bow, putting the arrow back in the quiver. In the process, he moves an arrow tipped with a tranquiliser to the front, where his fingers will find it if he needs to. He knows by now he’s not going to kill her. He’s too involved. 

“I thought your job was killing me?” she tilts her head to one side, the diamonds at her ears swinging in the frigid wind and catching the light. 

“Great thing about SHIELD,” he says, smiling slightly, “more flexibility. And a great health plan. Here’s the thing, Black Widow – I don’t want to kill you.” 

“Why not?” she asks, clearly not believing him. 

“Why do you think?” he asks, intrigued. 

“Am I worth more alive?” she moves a hand in lieu of a shrug. 

“My job is to kill you,” he tells her. “But see, I think you’re too good to be killed just like that.” 

“I’m flattered,” her lips curve upwards, and he watches silently as she angles her body to accentuate her curves, so subtle he almost misses it. Oh, he thinks admiringly, she is _so_ good. 

“I’m sure,” he smiles crookedly. “Look, you’re…you don’t…” Jesus, spit it out, Clint. He sighs. “The people you kill slowly, they deserve slow deaths. Everyone else you kill, you kill quick. So here’s what I get from that – stop me if I’m wrong – you’re not a robot. You actually have a heart under all of that lethal training and scariness.” 

“And you’re just the one to crack open my tough exterior and cuddle up to my inner spider?” she mocks him openly. “SHIELD doesn’t recruit their enemies, Hawkeye. Everyone knows that.” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” he argues, and sees her patience wear out in the roll of her eyes. The hand that’s folded under her elbow moves, and he thinks, _knife in the bra strap, obvious_ , as his arms move automatically, almost detached from the movement of the rest of his body. He lunges to the side as she throws her knife, so that blade misses. Another sinks into his thigh, but by then the tranquiliser arrow is already on the string, and in the time it takes her to decide to dive to the floor, he’s already predicted it. The arrow hits home, piercing her side and injecting her instantly. She grunts, and he’s at her side in seconds. 

“Shit!” he gasps as she slams another knife – where the hell is she getting these things? – into his shoulder. He’d only seen her jerk in time to avoid getting stabbed in the throat. He kicks her in the face and she swears in Russian, yanking the arrow out of her side and spinning it in her hand. She gets to her feet, only a little wobbly, and he does the same. There was enough sedative in that arrow to knock out a bodybuilder, but the Black Widow is still on her feet. She pulls another knife from the slit in her dress and they circle each other warily. He can’t put much weight on his left leg because of the knife that’s still in his thigh, and his left shoulder is in an equal amount of pain. He hates being stabbed. “I’m not going to kill you,” he says harshly, hands up where she can see them, “and I’m not taking you alive for interrogation. I just want to talk.” 

“It’s gonna be a very one-sided conversation if you’ve sedated me,” she says, and lashes forward with the arrow. He blocks it, grabs her other hand holding the knife, and has to let her kick his left thigh. He shouts, can’t help himself, yanks her close to him and smashes his forehead into hers with as much force as he can muster before his left leg completely gives out. He can barely keep upright on the slippery roof on one leg. 

“Fuck!” he swears, shoving her away. She stumbles, the tranquiliser finally kicking in, and he shuffles closer, ducks a swing from the hand holding the knife, avoids getting stabbed with his own arrow, and falls to the floor so that he can grab her ankle and pull it out from under her. The heel skids on the slick surface of the roof and she falls on her back with an angry hiss. Before she can get up again he throws himself on top of her and holds her wrists down. She’s not so pretty anymore, face contorted with fury and something else he can’t quite put his finger on. She turns her head and manages to pass the knife from her fingers to her mouth, and he only just manages to dodge a knife to the throat. He lets go of the hand that had held the knife and punches her in the face. The knife falls from her lips, but the hand he released slams into his temple hard enough to make his head spin. “Jesus Christ,” he bites out and flicks the knife out of her reach before capturing her hand and pinning it down again. 

She twists, hips bucking under him, and he curls his head into the gap between her shoulder and neck just in time to avoid getting his neck broken by her legs, which knee him in the back of the head instead. She’s very flexible, he thinks distantly, head aching powerfully. “I’m not gonna hurt you!” he grunts, putting all of his weight on her torso to keep her still. Her teeth snap dangerously close to his ear and she huffs as she attempts to wriggle out from under him again. One of her knees slams into his shoulders and he swears. “Not gonna hurt you, remember?” 

“Liar,” she breaths, mouth so close to his ear he can feel her exhale. 

“Not right now.” 

He has to lie on top of her for another five minutes or so before she stops struggling, her movements becoming slower and more sluggish as the cold sinks into her bones. He wonders whether she’s been trained to be resistant to tranquilisers, because she should’ve been out in under a minute. He levers himself into a sitting position once he’s sure she’s out cold, and the first thing he does is check her eyes and pulse. She looks dead to the world, but if he knows anything about the Black Widow, it’s that he can’t trust her. He shifts back, overbalances because he’s still got a knife in his thigh, and falls on his ass. The snow soaks through immediately and he sighs, looking down at his left shoulder. The handle of the knife is sticking out, and it looks like the Widow invests in expensive blades. The Swordsman would approve. 

“This tux probably cost more than I earn in a year,” he tells the Black Widow’s unconscious body. “Now it’s got two knife holes in it. And I think I’m bleeding.” He peered closer and pulled up the corner of his jacket to peek underneath at the white shirt. “Yeah, I’m bleeding. Ow. Christ, okay. Not the first time you’ve been stabbed, Hawkeye, grow a pair. Jeez.” He drops the edge of his jacket and takes shallow breaths. “Ow.” 

He binds his thigh with his tie, grateful he didn’t wear a bowtie instead, and calls Coulson after dragging the Black Widow downstairs into the attic. He’s pretty sure he needs medical attention, but that can wait. He puts the knives she buried in him in his pocket and finds the one that missed him and adds that as well. He has to psyche himself up for a minute or two before calling Coulson, sliding his earpiece in with a wince of anticipation already in place. 

“Hawkeye.” Coulson’s voice is tight, his version of worried. 

“It’s me,” Clint says unnecessarily, and sinks down to the floor, not taking his eyes off the Black Widow. He’s bound her wrists with his bow string, but there’s nothing he can do about her legs. 

“Is the job done?” 

“Um,” Clint watches the slow rise and fall of the Black Widows chest and winces. “Not exactly.” 

“ _Hawkeye_.” 

Shit. “I need a car, and a safe house.” 

“What happened?” 

“It’s a little hard to explain –” 

“Explain. _Now_.” 

Oh, shit. “Well, I didn’t kill her. But I think I might be able to come to some sort of arrangement with her?” 

“Explain better.” 

“Right.” Clint runs a hand over his face and wishes he carried strong painkillers in his quiver for occasions like this. “Okay.” Coulson’s clearly not in the mood for teasing, so he tells him everything about his encounter with the Widow on the roof. Coulson is silent while he speaks, and doesn’t say anything for a long, tense moment when he’s done. “C?” Clint asks hesitantly. “You still there?” 

“I’m here.” Deadly calm. That probably wasn’t good, but it was better than the tightly controlled anger from before. “Are you telling me that you have the target in custody?” 

“Yes. For the moment. But she shook off my tranq like a pro, so I don’t know when she’ll wake up. I need a car and a safe house.” 

“What do you need a safe house for?” 

“I need to talk to her.” 

“No, agent, you need to do your job.” 

“Look, just trust me on this one. Please?” 

Coulson takes a deep breath. Clint can hear him over the link, and sees the deep lines between his eyes in his mind. If Coulson refuses to send the car and secure a safe place for them to talk, he’ll have to kill her. But he really, really doesn’t want to. 

“Did you fall for her?” Coulson asks finally. Clint raises his eyebrows and then snorts. 

“Are you kidding? I spoke to her once, mostly in veiled threats. No.” 

“Then what is it about her that is making you behave like this is even a viable option?” 

“Gut instinct,” Clint looks at the Black Widow. “Look, she’s…better than this. I can’t think of how else to explain it. Please trust me.” 

“You expect me to believe that you can convince her to suddenly turn around and start working for us?” They both know that interrogation isn’t Clint’s aim – the Black Widow would be more than capable of holding out under torture. 

“Maybe. Let me _try_ , C.” 

“If this doesn’t work, you know it’s all on you.” 

A blatant lie because as his handler, Coulson will get burned just as badly if this goes wrong. Clint sighs. He’s going to be paying Coulson back for this for years. “Thank you. Car? Safe house?” 

“The woman you danced with first is on her way up to you now. She’ll take you out to her car, and I will give you an address once you are both in the car and the target is secure.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hawkeye?” 

“Sir?” 

“Stay alert.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Oh, they’re going to have a long, painful talk about following orders when he gets back, Clint can just tell. He shifts his weight and presses his balled-up waistcoat harder against his shoulder, which is really starting to hurt now. The Black Widow is still unconscious, but he keeps his eyes on her as he waits for the SHIELD agent he’d danced with earlier to find him. He doesn’t have long to wait. 

She swears as she takes in the sight of the two of them, and pulls a length of cord out of her purse and ties the Widow’s legs together at the thigh, knee, and ankle. “Didn’t say you were injured,” she says shortly, throwing a glance at Clint over her shoulder as she works. 

“Forgot to mention it,” Clint pushes himself upright and grimaces. “Can you carry her?” 

“Yes,” the agent doesn’t look happy, but she manages to haul the Black Widow’s body over her shoulder and straighten up. “Can you walk?” 

“I can hop,” Clint shrugs. She purses her lips, but jerks her head towards the door. He follows her in silence, every other step agony. They go back out through the servant’s corridors, and take a dusty side exit into an alley where a car with tinted windows is waiting. 

“Knock twice on the window,” the agent tells him, voice strained as she shifts the Widow’s weight. The Black Widow isn’t big by anyone’s standards, but Clint supposes she’s all muscle. He does as he’s told, and gets four knocks in return. He looks at the agent, who nods, and he slides into the car and helps get the Black Widow in, spread across their laps. Her head ends up on his uninjured thigh, and he doesn’t take his eyes off her face in case she wakes up suddenly. It’s highly unlikely, given the dose of the sedative, but he stays alert just in case. 

His earpiece buzzes, and he touches it. “Hawkeye.” 

“Car?” 

“In it. Address?” 

Coulson gives him a street and two numbers and signs off without any parting words. Clint winces and repeats it to the driver. Coulson is very pissed off with him. It’s understandable – he is taking a massive risk with this – but it still makes him cringe. 

 

 

When the Black Widow finally wakes up, she doesn’t open her eyes. Clint sits utterly still, keeps his breathing silent, and watches her. After a moment, she opens her eyes, and she starts when she sees him. It’s wrong to feel a thrill of triumph at managing to surprise her, but he can’t help it. She flexes her muscles against her bonds and narrows her eyes. They’ve laid her out on a bed, just a mattress, no sheets. She swings herself easily into a sitting position to match his – he’s on a wooden chair opposite her – and they observe each other like cats preparing to fight. 

“What is this?” she asks finally, when it’s clear that he’s not going to speak first. 

“A safe house,” he tells her. “No cameras, no one but you, me, and two SHIELD agents downstairs. We’re five floors up, they’re on the ground, by the way.” The room they’re in has no windows. It’s white and bare, with cracks in the plaster and damp in the corners of the carpet on the floor. She looks around and tosses her hair over her shoulder, which has mostly come unpinned in all of the moving around. Regina Spektor, he thinks, _Lounge_. She’s beautiful, and he doesn’t ever plan on telling her that, because she’s probably heard it from her enemies far too much. 

“Why?” If looks could kill, he thinks, and thinks of the number of knives they had to remove from various straps on her legs. Her dress was long for a reason. One of the diamonds in her earrings was a fake, a hollow space holding enough cyanide to kill a bull. 

“Because I wasn’t lying,” he tells her. “I want to talk to you. I obviously can’t do that without restraining you, because you’ve stabbed me twice for trying – and thanks for that by the way, my physical wounds will heal, but the scars will remain on my heart forever – so here we are.” 

“What do you expect me to tell you?” she asks, bearing as regal as a queen. “I don’t work for any organisation or one person anymore.” 

“Actually, not so interested in any of that,” Clint holds his hands up and shrugs. “More interested in your future.” 

“Which you are going to give me options for?” Ooh, feel the disdain, he thinks. She’s not bothering to pretend anymore. “Are SHEILD agents so incompetent that Fury needs to recruit his enemies now?” 

“Obviously not that incompetent,” he says, looking pointedly at her tied limbs and his free position. “Actually, no. This mission wasn’t for recruitment. I was sent to kill you, because you’ve been interfering pretty seriously with our operations lately. Fury wants you out of the picture.” 

“And you decided to play with your food first?” she narrows her eyes, lips thin. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says quietly. “I’m putting my neck out for you here.” 

“I’m touched.” 

“Uh huh. What do you want, Widow? You escaped from your zookeepers and you’ve been dancing all over the world, lending your skills to whoever you choose to accept payment from. What do you get out of that?” 

“Freedom from the zoo, perhaps?” she raises an eyebrow. 

“I guess,” he frowns, trying to read her. “I don’t know what kind of zoo the Red Room is, but we haven’t heard a peep from them since you appeared on the scene, obviously working outside of their influence.” She tilts her head, adjusts the line of her shoulders, body hardening, and he understands what she’s thinking in a flash of understanding – to her, it looked like he was dangling a fake job offer in front of her nose in order to interrogate her. “Sorry,” he says, “that’s just something that interests me. I’m just nosy like that.” 

“What a surprise,” she murmurs. 

He grimaces. “Yeah, forget about it. Look, I don’t want to know about your past. That doesn’t concern me.” 

“Then what does concern you?” she asks, leaning forward, a curl of hair falling over her face. “My _future_? Spiders like me don’t make good pets, Hawkeye.” 

“I don’t keep pets,” he says, “and neither does SHIELD. Look, you’ve got two options here. You either accept my proposal, or I kill you.” 

“Those are some great options.” She flicks the curl out of her eye and fixes him with a very unimpressed look. “Do I get to hear your proposal before choosing?” 

“Seems only fair,” he can’t help a small crooked smile. “Quit this job you’re on. Leave your current target – or targets – and have a look at what SHIELD can offer.” 

“Why?” she tilts her head back. “What could you offer me? I’m doing perfectly well on my own. I choose my own clients, I go where I want, I do what I like.” 

“But do you have a great health plan?” Clint asks seriously. She narrows her eyes slightly and he shrugs. “Sorry, but yeah, while your way of doing things works for now, you have no real security. You’ve got to be totally alert all the time. You put yourself at risk every time you move.” _And right now you’re tied up and at my mercy_ , goes unspoken. 

“The price of independence,” she shrugs. 

“A price you don’t have to pay,” he insists. He pauses, runs a hand through his hair, leans back and resists the urge to tilt the chair back on two legs. “SHIELD agents get to choose their missions as well you know. And there’s a lot less risk involved. I’ve got a team backing me up. I’ve got a handler on the other end of my phone I can trust absolutely. I’ve got funding too, and I can put all expenses on missions on the company tab, including as many doughnuts as I want. The pay isn’t that bad, I get to do a job I’m very good at, and I have friends.” He realises as he says it how grateful he is for SHIELD picking him up. Without SHIELD, he’d still be an army sniper, with all of the problems and none of the benefits. 

“Friends?” the Black Widow interrupts his thoughts with a contemptuous look. 

“Yeah,” he smiles slightly. “People I can trust, who trust me, and who I hang out with socially. We have casual cocktails and general drinking Fridays. I get to relax in my downtime, y’know? Shoot some pool, watch some TV – things I don’t have to worry about. And did I mention the health plan?” 

“Several times.” She purses her lips and doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t speak either, because it looks like she’s thinking it over. He really hopes she’s thinking it over. “What does Fury want in exchange for this deal?” she asks finally, sounding suspicious. 

“If he wants anything, I don’t know,” Clint rubs the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly. “I don’t know if he even knows what I’m doing yet.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “You’re offering something you have no power to follow through on.” 

“Basically,” he agrees, “but I know they’d go for this.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Because they trust their agents,” he tells her, totally honest. He hopes she can read that. “And I know what they would get in exchange for this.” 

“What?” she doesn’t sound pleased at all. 

“You,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You wouldn’t have to give them anything more than that. You’re the Black Widow. Until now, they haven’t been able to get anywhere near you. You’re a living legend. Everyone knows you can kill men three times your size with your ankles, probably with your hands tied behind your back. You’re a highly skilled operative. It takes years to get agents trained up to just half your standard. Look,” he adds, leaning forward and never taking his eyes off her disinterested face, “you’ve killed a lot of people that we know about. I figure the real number is probably a lot higher. You kill people who put others in harm’s way slowly. You’re not a heartless monster. Think about this – SHIELD doesn’t have a shady ulterior motive. As secret organisations go, we’re pretty good at not being evil. I mean, SHIELD is basically all for world peace, puppies and kittens playing in harmony on the streets, that kind of thing. We’re against the bad guys. You’ve got a serious body count behind your name. Ever thought about maybe working to rub it out a bit?” 

“You can’t erase blood with blood,” she tells him, but she doesn’t sound as against the idea as before. She sounds like she’s just repeating something she thinks is the truth, but she really wants to believe otherwise. _Redemption_ , he thinks, and knows he’s got it. 

“But you can atone for bad with good,” he tells her quietly, insistent as he dares. If he pushes too hard, she’ll retreat back into herself and just lash out. And then it’ll be over. 

“You really believe that?” she smirks wearily and shakes her head. They both know how childish he sounds.

“I do.” He leans back again and meets her gaze as honestly as he can. “You’ll never get an offer this good again, you know.” 

She looks down and frowns. They’re both silent for a long moment before she speaks again. “Call your handler. I don’t want to agree to a deal made by someone who can’t follow through.” 

Clint feels the hope unfold under his ribcage like a flower blooming and nods slowly. “Okay. Let me call up one of the others to keep an eye on you while I make the call.” 

“You can’t call them from here?” she raises an eyebrow, the corner of her beautiful lips turning up slightly, mocking him again. 

“Let’s not push our luck,” he says wryly, getting his phone out and dialling the number the woman from the dance had given him. He knows the Black Widow’s smart enough to notice the ‘our’ – they’re in this together now, as far as he’s concerned. “What should I call you, by the way?” he asks before he presses the connect button. “You never answered me before.” 

She gives him a cool look, then tilts her chin up. “My name is Natalia Romanova.” 

“That’s a mouthful.” 

“You can call me Natasha.” 

“Okay,” he nods and smiles. “Good to meet you, Natasha. I’m Clint. Give me a moment.” He presses the button and puts the phone to his ear. “Hey. Uh huh. All good. I need to make another call; can one of you come up and watch her? Thanks.” He hangs up and puts the phone away. “Okay, we’re in the game, Natasha. This should be exciting.” 

“You’ve never taken the initiative to move outside of the rules before this?” she asks, amused. 

“Not to this extent,” he sighs. “Wasn’t kidding about my neck being on the line here.” 

“Our necks.” 

He looks at her and smiles faintly. “Right. Our necks.” 

The agent he danced with – he needs to find out what her name is – arrives soon and relives him with a curt nod. He can’t see the woman making small talk, or any talk at all, which is probably best for everyone involved. He limps down the corridor to the stairwell where he won’t be overheard and dials Coulson’s number. He picks up before the first ring is finished. 

“Hawkeye.” 

“I think now’s the time we need to talk to the big cheese, C.” 

“The line’s secure, Hawkeye. Anyone who’s listening will already know who we are by now.” 

Clint nods. “Okay. I think we need to talk to Director Fury about now.” 

“What did she say?” 

“She says she won’t make any agreements on an arrangement that hasn’t been okayed by the boss.” 

“She’s smarter than you are.” 

“Lots of people are smarter than I am. I’m not known for my brains.” 

“Oh, I’m well aware of that.” 

Coulson’s anger is not going away any time soon. Clint leans against the wall and sighs. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. But I think she’ll agree. She’s not a machine like the other spiders, C. She’s got a heart in there, I can tell. She doesn’t want to keep on the way she is, not really.” 

“What does she want?” Coulson asks acidly. 

“As far as I can tell, she wants to redeem herself.” 

There’s a pause before Coulson responds. “Redeem herself?” his voice is thick with disbelief. 

“I know how it sounds, but she’s not like the other Black Widows. She escaped their psychotic bullshit, remember? She’s something else.” 

“Which is exactly what makes her so dangerous,” Coulson reminds him, but he sighs. “I’ll get Director Fury. This had better be worth it, Hawkeye.” 

“If it works, it will be,” Clint says, and they both know it. The problem is, they both know how incredibly badly it could go if they get this wrong. 

Fury is predictably pissed at being dragged out of bed, but he falls silent as Coulson explains the situation to him. He asks Clint about the Black Widow – Natasha, as he’s now calling her – and he has to go through the whole story again. “And what did you promise her in return for coming to SHIELD?” Fury asks eventually, not sounding pleased, but not rejecting it outright, which gives Clint some hope. 

“A job, that’s all. Same as any other agent. With all the benefits, obviously.” 

“Benefits?” Fury repeats, and Clint can _hear_ his eyebrow rise. 

“Yeah, y’know, job security, somewhere to safe to stay, free food – a health plan. All the standard bells and whistles.” 

“What does she think we want in return for her services?” 

“I’m pretty sure she thinks we want to interrogate her. But, I mean, do we need to?” 

“Hmm, let me think,” Fury says sarcastically, “interrogate the Black Widow? Who has dipped her hand in the moneybags of more of our enemies than I care to list at this present time? Who has inside intelligence on what is probably the most well-guarded psychological and physical brainwashing facility in the world? Damn, you’re right, why would I want to talk to her at all?” 

Clint cringes, glad the director can’t see him. “I don’t think we should. I think if this works, if she comes to work for SHIELD and actually settles in, she’ll start talking of her own volition.” 

“Unacceptable. I can’t pass up an opportunity like this.” 

“She won’t crack under torture,” Clint narrows his eyes, “and she’s way too smart to fall for any sort of friendly tricks.” 

“I can’t let the Black Widow into a SHIELD facility without solid evidence that she’s serious about working for me. Loyalty is a big deal, Hawkeye, and this woman hasn’t shown any evidence of having any inclination of loyalty to anyone or anything but herself.” 

“Exactly!” Clint pauses and thinks for a moment before rushing ahead. “Sir, if you give her the facilities to help herself, she…she’s not the sort of person to take that sort of thing lightly. She’s got a strong compass in her for these things. She’s the sort of person who pays her debts.” 

“You got that from talking to her twice?” Fury snorts. “I don’t think so.” 

Clint frowns and closes his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Okay, a compromise. No interrogation, but to show you she’s serious, she gives up the name of whoever employed her to take out yellow and the others. That’s something we really need right now, and it’s not big enough for her to take a stand over. We get the name and a seriously skilled new agent; she gets security and a way to start cleaning up her past. Everyone wins. If she gives you more information later as she gets more comfortable, it’ll be a bonus, right?” 

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and Clint forces himself to relax. He hears Coulson’s voice murmur something in the background, and then Fury speaks. “Fine. If you can get her to agree, do it. You’re close by, right?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then get to it, agent.” 

“Right, sir.” He hangs up and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but damn if it wasn’t looking a lot clearer up ahead. He limps back to the room and opens the door. “I’m good,” he says as the other agent stands with a frown, noticing the way he’s leaning heavily against the wall. “Wait outside.” 

“Sir,” she nods and closes the door behind her as Clint goes over to the chair and sits down. 

“Thanks again,” he says wryly, gesturing to his thigh. 

“Don’t mention it,” she deadpans. “You spoke to Fury?”

“I did. The deal’s on, on one condition.” 

“Which is?” she narrows her eyes. 

“You give us everything you know about your employer for your current job,” he says, stretching his left leg out slowly. “That’s it. Everything else, you can keep to yourself. No interrogations, no interviews, no evaluations. You do that to prove you’re serious, and you get to walk away from this alive, with a shiny new job.” 

“And if I refuse?” 

Clint pulls a face. “You know the answer to that.” 

“I do,” she nods and looks down at her bound hands, resting in her lap as casually as if she was taking tea with him instead of negotiating for her own life. “Alright,” she says finally, meeting his eyes. “I accept.” There’s the same thing in her expression that Clint couldn’t put his finger on when they were fighting on the roof earlier, and he realises that it’s fear, or something very similar. 

“Okay,” he can’t help bursting into a grin, and he pulls his phone out again. No point in walking out again now, he figures, and his leg is killing him. Fury picks up immediately. 

“She accept?” 

“Yes, sir,” he grins at Natasha, who doesn’t smile back, but doesn’t give him poison-filled looks like she had earlier. 

“You with her now?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Right. You follow my exact instructions, and when I’m done you get moving. I don’t care if you’re injured, I don’t care if you haven’t slept. You go with Agent Anders and Agent Fielding and you keep her secure and in your sights at _all times_. As soon as you board the jet, the woman will tell us everything about whoever employed her to take out our leads. Am I clear, agent?” 

“Yes, sir.” His grin is gone now, and he listens seriously as Fury gives him directions to follow to the letter or so help him god not even Coulson will be able to keep Clint off Fury’s shit-list. As soon as he’s done, Clint is ordered to put the phone to Natasha’s ear. He hobbles over to do so, and they’re both well aware that she could take him down in less than a second if she wanted to, but she holds his gaze as she says, “Yes,” “I am,” and “I understand,” to Fury, and doesn’t make any shifty moves at all. 

Fury hangs up before Clint can speak to Coulson again, which means he’s still pissed that Clint got him out of bed, but Clint puts it from his mind and focuses on the task at hand. Agent Fielding, the man who drove them to the safe house, has found Clint a pair of crutches, and while he can’t use the left one because of his shoulder, the right certainly helps with his leg. Anders and Fielding untie Natasha’s legs to allow her to walk to the car, and she ends up sandwiched between Clint and Anders as Fielding takes the wheel. They’ll be on a jet headed for the Helicarrier by the time dawn breaks, and Clint can’t wait to get back. 

 

 

Fury’s waiting for them when they land, scowl in place and trench coat flapping in the wind. “Welcome back,” he says to Clint and the other agents before turning to Natasha, still done up in her evening dress. They’ve removed her restraints completely now, so Fury sticks his hand out. “It’s good to meet you. Hawkeye here tells me we can call you Natasha?” 

“Natasha Romanoff,” she nods and meets his eyes squarely. “You’re Director Fury.” 

“I am,” they drop each other’s hands and he beckons them inside, out of the freezing wind. “Hawkeye, since this was your decision, you’re her shadow. You understand, Miss Romanoff, we can’t just let the Black Widow run around our secure facility unsupervised.” 

“Of course not,” she agrees, inclining her head. “I assume I’ll be on some sort of probation?” 

“Naturally. Hawkeye will be your mentor.” 

“I will?” Clint stares and then collects himself when Fury shoots a glare at him. “Right, okay. Mentor duty.” 

“You’ll shadow each other for the foreseeable future until I decide you’re trustworthy enough to go solo,” Fury tells Natasha. “You’re relieved,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder at Anders and Fielding. They both murmur, “Yes, sir,” and left. “Miss Romanoff?” he pauses and leans down slightly, staring down into her eyes with his one. “I want to trust you. Understand that. Having you on my side would be a great asset, and with the information you’ve given us holding up so far, you’re in my good books. You play this right, as far as I’m concerned you get a blank slate. But try to cross me, and I will not hesitate to end you. Do we understand each other?” 

“We do,” she says, not flinching away. “Sir,” she adds after a second, and Fury’s lips twitch with something that is far from amusement. 

“Excellent. Hawkeye, report to medical. Miss Romanoff, you go with him. Agent Coulson will find you there.” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint nods. Fury strides ahead, but Natasha keeps pace with Clint as he hobbles along on the crutch. “Don’t worry about his little speech,” he tells her as they walk. “He’s given it to everyone at some point.” 

“Has he given it to you?” she looks at him and raises an eyebrow. 

“Sure,” Clint fails to hide a wince as his left foot brushes the ground. Keeping it elevated is almost as bad as walking on it. “Good thing medical’s on this floor. Stairs would be a bit much for me right now.” 

“No elevators?” 

“Nah. Apparently it’s for some sort of technical reason, but I think Fury just likes to keep us fit, running up and down all the time.” 

They walk in silence the rest of the way, and Natasha comes in and watches silently as he’s scowled over, scolded, and fixed up with a brutal efficiency that’s both proud and angry – the kind only medical staff can manage. They ignore Natasha for the time being, even though they probably already know who she is – gossip travels lightning-fast on the Helicarrier. When they finally deem Clint fit to re-join the ranks of the other bumbling idiots who get themselves torn up just to torment the medical staff (he’s convinced that’s how they view the agents, nothing else explains the sheer level of exasperated condescension they manage to project every time someone comes in with an injury), they try to put him in a wheelchair, but he manages to get away. Natasha follows him with a look on her face that’s equal parts amused and baffled. 

Clint stops so suddenly when the door opens automatically that he almost loses his footing. Natasha doesn’t seem startled at all, which makes sense, because she has scarily good reflexes. Coulson stands absolutely still, eyes narrow and displeased. 

“Hi,” Clint says finally, sounding more nervous than he’d like. “So, Natasha, this is Agent Coulson. He’s my handler. For this mission, anyway. Coulson, this is –” 

“Natasha Romanoff,” Coulson says pleasantly, stepping forward past Clint to shake Natasha’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Would you object to having a full medical check-up? It’s standard procedure.” 

“Not at all,” she says calmly. Coulson smiles and looks at Clint. 

“Wait here,” he says sternly, and escorts Natasha back inside. 

The corridor outside of the medical centre is wide, with a space opposite that serves as a waiting area. Clint limps over and lowers himself slowly into one of the metal chairs to wait for Coulson. He hopes that he won’t have to go to Coulson’s office, which is a floor down. He’s already dreading the three flights of stairs he’ll have to tackle to get to the residence floor where his room is. 

Coulson comes back out five minutes later, and crosses the floor immediately to sit in the seat on Clint’s right. He doesn’t look at him once. Clint does his best not to cringe. Neither of them says anything at first, and then Coulson opens his mouth. “Contrary to what you may believe, just because you are a solo operative with a unique skillset, that does not make you the centre of the world.” 

Clint looks down at resists the urge to twine his fingers together. “I know.” 

“Really?” Coulson sounds as calm as he always does, like they’re discussing nothing of great consequence. “You certainly haven’t behaved like you know. Your actions have potentially endangered everyone in this facility, to say nothing of your own life. You couldn’t just do the job. You had to get creative. Do you have any idea what will happen to you if it turns out that you’ve made the wrong call?” he looks at Clint, who keeps his eyes down. “Losing your security clearance will be the least of your worries. And what about me? You’re not the only one putting their neck out here, you know.” 

“I know,” Clint says quietly, and turns to meet Coulson’s eyes. “Thank you for trusting me on this. Seriously. I know the way I handled this mission wasn’t exactly great, but I’ll do whatever you want to make it up to you.” 

“If this goes badly, you won’t have a chance to make it up to me,” Coulson tells him. 

“It won’t go badly.” Clint swallows and sits up a little straighter. “Would you have followed through on my call if you didn’t trust that the Black Widow could switch sides?” 

“I didn’t go through with this because I trust her,” Coulson says in a low voice. “I decided to do this because I trust you. I just hope for both our sakes that you’re right.” 

The door to the medical centre opens and Natasha steps out, still in her evening dress. Coulson turns away from Clint as if they hadn’t been speaking and gets to his feet. “We need to get you some clothes,” he says, not looking back at Clint as he levers himself awkwardly to his feet. “Would you like a uniform or something more comfortable?” 

“No civvies,” Clint tells her helpfully. “Not here. But the women’s casual uniforms are nice. Or you could wear a tracksuit, I guess. Everything has the SHIELD logo on it, so it’s all uniform, really.” 

“I…” she frowns, looking momentarily lost. “I could wear the casual uniform?” 

“Okay,” Coulson nods amiably and takes the corridor to the right, nodding for Natasha to follow. “Let’s take you downstairs, get you fitted up. Do you mind if we dispose of your dress?” 

“No.” 

“Hey, guys!” Clint hops after them as quickly as he can. “Wait for me! I’m meant to be mentoring or whatever, remember?”


	4. Aim Free And So Untrue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha settles in at SHIELD and shares missions with Clint. Clint learns more about her past and is reunited with Barney. A green monster makes paperwork for Coulson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Lazy Eye](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-mxBDuRaZ8Lazy) by Silversun Pickups.

Natasha shadows him as he heals up. She wears her hair loose most of the time, up in a ponytail when she works out. Most of the other agents are too freaked out to spar with her, but a few step up to the challenge. Clint whoops from the side-lines as she takes them all out with a grace no one else can match. She’s as deadly as the knives she throws down at the range, and just as fast. Clint has to attend physio sessions before he can work up to pulling back a bowstring again, but it’s worth it when he stands next to the Black Widow, her throwing knives and him shooting arrows. They hit every single one of their targets, and when Clint gives her a grin at the end, she actually smiles back. 

Still, she’s silent and withdrawn. The information she gave them on the people who employed her to kill their leads on the Zodiac Cartel holds solid, and she’s allowed to sleep without a camera in her room and go in the training room, gym, and common room without Clint. He stays with her as much as he can anyway, because she gets an uncomfortable look about her when she’s thrust into an unfamiliar situation and left alone. The people who encounter her have no idea how to treat her. Some ignore her, some are scared, some make a poor, blustering attempt at including her that’s clearly all about making them look tough instead of making her feel at ease. 

True to his promise, Clint doesn’t ask about her past. A lot of the time they spend together is spent in silence. Whenever she does venture a question, Clint’s careful never to make a big deal out of it. 

“How did you join SHIELD?” she asks one day. They’re in the common room, sitting next to each other on the comfortable seats near the back. A few people are watching the TV, but Clint’s got his headphones in, and Natasha’s reading a book Coulson gave her called _Midnight’s Children_. He pulls out his headphones and looks at her. 

“Come again?” 

“How did you join SHIELD?” she repeats. 

“Oh.” He pauses his music and shrugs. “I didn’t. I got picked. I used to be a sniper in the army. Some guy bought a bow while I was on tour and I showed off a bit. I guess SHIELD was looking for a marksman with flair or something, because Coulson came along and that was it.” 

“You could already shoot?” she asks, maybe a little curious. Her expressions are so subtle that it’s hard to tell sometimes what she’s thinking. For Clint, usually so good at reading people, it makes her as much of a challenge as the eternally-calm Coulson. 

“Uh huh,” he grins and leans closer as if he’s about to share a secret. She looks unimpressed, but leans in obligingly. “I grew up in the circus,” he tells her, and pulls away to see her reaction. She raises an eyebrow. 

“Really.” 

“Cross my heart,” he draws an ‘X’ over his chest. “I joined with my brother when I was ten and he was thirteen. Learned to shoot from the archer there, and I took over when he left. I’m just real good with a bow. Plus, I had about ten years of pretty much constant practise.” 

“What does it say in the SHIELD files about me?” she asks, definitely curious this time. 

He pauses. He knows most of what’s in his own file, so he doesn’t see what harm it can do. Most of what they have on her is probably rubbish anyway. “Well, they might’ve updated it since you came here – I haven’t seen it since before I left to find you.” 

“To kill me,” she corrects him. 

“Finding you was part of that,” he says defensively. “Anyway. Uh, we don’t know that much about you – you’re one of the Black Widows from a facility we know as the Red Room, you started drawing attention to yourself in 1994, and in ’95 SHIELD cottoned onto the fact that you were working alone. We don’t know where you come from, your real name, how old you are – nothing. Only what we think you’ve done since 1994. And since you change your methods a lot, it’s hard to get a fix on the things you might’ve been involved in.” 

“How did you know I wasn’t working for the Red Room?” she asks, expression carefully blank. 

Clint thinks about it for a moment. “You worked outside of their stomping ground, I think. I can’t remember exactly. I think you were implicated in the deaths of some people we were pretty sure were connected to the Red Room.” 

“You’re not curious?” she raises an eyebrow. 

“About you?” he asks, and she nods. “Well yeah, but I can put my mind off it pretty easy, and I told you I wouldn’t pry, so I won’t. I’m pretty good at keeping my promises.” 

They sit in silence for another few minutes, but Natasha doesn’t go back to reading, so Clint doesn’t put his headphones back in. He’s got a feeling she’s going to say something else, and he’s good at waiting. 

“They told me I was born in 1979,” she says suddenly, so quiet he almost misses it. 

“You’re only twenty-six?” he stares at her. “Huh. I’ll be thirty on the twenty-eighth. No Sagittarius jokes, please.” 

“Sagittarius?” she frowns. 

“Yeah. Star signs?” 

“Oh.” 

“I get at least one Sagittarius joke every year from some smart-ass who thinks they’re a comedy genius, so none of those. But I will accept presents.” He grins at her. “Drink is always welcome.” 

“And how would I get that?” she smirks slightly. “Skydive to the nearest shop?” 

“You haven’t got any pay yet either,” Clint sighed, nodding. “Okay, I forgive you for this year, and for Christmas, but I’ll be wanting a present next year. When’s your birthday?” 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, unconcerned. “I was never told.” 

“You don’t know your birthday?” Clint frowns. “That’ll make paperwork difficult.” 

“I’ll make one up.” 

“Hey, no, you can’t do that!” she stares when he leans forward, eyes wide. “You can’t just pick a date out of thin air!” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it’s important! And you could choose a really cool date if you wanted. I wonder what happened in 1979 that’s worth putting a birthday on. Oh! Or you could do it by star signs! See which one your personality matches best.” 

“Are you always this strange?” she asks, looking a little perturbed. 

“He gets worse the longer you know him,” Coulson says, appearing silently next to Clint’s chair. 

“Jeez!” Clint clutches his heart dramatically. “Warn a guy!” 

“You heard me coming,” Coulson says mildly. “Natasha, Director Fury wants to see you on the bridge. Barton, you’re coming with me.” 

“You know the way?” Clint checks as they get up. Natasha nods. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Am I in trouble?” Clint asks as soon as she’s out of earshot. 

“We’re going to a de-briefing meeting.” Coulson tells him without looking at him. “Miss Romanoff cannot attend for obvious reasons.” 

Clint’s eyes widen. “Did you just send her off to Fury when he hadn’t asked for her?” 

Coulson glances at him. “Is that a problem?” 

Clint almost gapes in horror, but then narrows his eyes. “You’re not that mean. Especially not to newbies.” 

“I hardly think that the Black Widow qualifies as a newbie,” Coulson points out, and Clint relaxes. 

“Okay, but what does Fury want with her then?” 

“I didn’t ask.” 

“But you know, right?” Clint grinned. Coulson shot him a narrow-eyed look only a couple of shades off a glare. 

“If I did know, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.” 

Ouch. Point taken. “Sorry,” Clint mutters, falling back to walk half a step behind him. 

After a moment, Coulson sighs and stands still for a second so that he and Clint walk side by side again. “I’m not mad at you,” he explains. “I’m just –” 

“Still pissed at me,” Clint finishes. Coulson looks at him, and he shrugs helplessly. “It’s fine, I get it. I acted out and it could’ve really screwed up.”

“So far though, it’s not screwing up,” Coulson paused in front of one of the briefing room doors, hand on the handle. “If this is some kind of bluff, she’s fooled us all.” 

“She’ll’ve fooled me first,” Clint reminded him, but Coulson shook his head. 

“Irrelevant. She will have duped all of us. Your part in this potential duplicity may have been instrumental, but she’s not just your responsibility anymore.” 

“Doesn’t feel that way,” Clint says wryly. 

Coulson tilts his head curiously. “Do you want to be rid of her?” 

Clint frowns. “No. She’s…she’s still new here. I think she’s starting to trust me a little. Enough, at any rate. We going in?” 

“We are.” Coulson looks him straight in the eyes. “Before you say anything in this room, I want you to stop, think, and say to yourself, ‘what would Coulson think?’ before you actually speak. Is that understood?” Clint’s only an inch or so taller than Coulson, but this close they’re pretty much on eye level. It’s slightly intimidating, not that Clint will ever admit it. 

“Yes, sir,” he says. 

“Good,” Coulson nods and pushes the door open. 

 

 

The de-briefing is long and dull, and Clint gets sick of answering the same questions ten times with different phrasing. But he catches Coulson’s eye every time he almost makes a sarcastic comment and forces himself to keep his mouth shut. It’s harder than he’d expected. He almost wants to write down all of the witty comments he could have said and present them to the SHIELD agents in there with him, or at least to Coulson. 

When they get out, Coulson waits until it’s just him and Clint in the hall, and then he smiles and pats Clint’s shoulder before going on his way. 

It shouldn’t make him feel as hopeful and happy as it does, Clint thinks as he walks back to his room. It makes him feel like a dog. But he’s always wanted to please and impress Coulson, ever since swearing that he would complete the SHIELD basic training in one year rather than two or three. Something in Coulson makes Clint want to prove himself, and it’s as useful in spurring him on as it is irritating for making him feel like he isn’t entirely his own man. 

He checks Natasha’s room, which is down the hall from his, but she’s not in there. He checks the common room, even though he knows she won’t be there, and the training room, though she almost never goes in there alone. Giving up, he goes to his room and tries to unwind, turns his music up loud and stretches out on his bed. Lying down, he can almost touch the opposite wall with his outstretched hand. There’s only enough room at the end of his bed for the standard SHIELD size cupboard where he keeps his clothes. That and the tiny bedside table are all he has in the way of furniture. Bathrooms are communal. He doesn’t particularly care, and doesn’t join in when some of the other agents complain that they’ve seen closets bigger than the rooms on the Helicarrier. The way he sees it, he doesn’t usually do anything more than sleep in his room anyway, so it doesn’t matter what it looks like, and as long as the bed fits, he doesn’t care how big it is either. 

Natasha finds him some time later, opening the door and peering in cautiously. When Clint sees her and turns down the volume, she says, “I knocked,” somewhat defensively. 

Clint sits up and shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says. “You’re probably the only one who ever bothers. You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” she hovers and frowns. “Can I come in?” 

“Sure,” he budges up on the bed and gestures for her to sit next to him. “What did Fury want?” 

“In two weeks I’ll be put on probation, allowed to go along on supervised missions,” she says, frowning. Catching Clint’s puzzled look, she explains. “He wanted to know if I was ready to become a full-time agent.” 

“You said yes.” 

“What else am I good for?” she shrugs with one shoulder and Clint frowns. She looks around his room and her eyes come to rest on the laptop perched on Clint’s bedside table. “What is this?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. 

“You mean the music?” Clint grins. “You are currently listening to the tuneful, yet chaotic sound of Muse. You like it?” 

“No,” she says flatly. Clint laughs. 

“That’s okay, I know how to accept a differing opinion. Oh, that reminds me – I’ve got something for you.” He gets up and goes to his cupboard, which is also where he keeps his CDs. There’s more music in there than clothes, but as far as Clint’s concerned, that just means he has less washing to do. His fingers flick through the stacks until he finds what he’s looking for and pulls it out with a triumphant sound. “Here,” he hands it to Natasha, who takes it with a small, confused frown. 

“What is it?” 

“You’ve never seen a CD before?” he asks sceptically. She glares at him and turns it over. The front shows a red-haired woman in denim squeezed into a box, a tiny grand piano at her feet. 

“What do you want me to do with it?” 

“Listen to it,” Clint shrugs. “If you like it, you can keep it.” 

“ _Tori Amos_ ,” she reads the name above the photograph and her frown deepens. “I don’t…I haven’t got anything to play it on.” 

“You can borrow my old discman,” Clint gestures for her to lift his legs so that he can open one of the drawers under his bed. He rummages around until he finds it and hands it to her with a crooked smile. “You can keep that too, if you want. I never use it.” She takes it with the hand not holding the CD and stares at them. He wonders for a moment if she’s ever been given a present before. Probably not, he thinks, and decides not to make a big deal out of it at all. 

“Thank you,” she says after a while, and gets to her feet without looking at him. She still looks slightly confused, but he doesn’t try to push her. 

“I’ll get you when I go for dinner, okay?” he says, and she nods, leaving without another word. 

He hopes she likes the CD. If not, he’s got different music he thinks she’ll like. He’s always been good at reading people, after all. 

 

 

Natasha’s silent when he gets her, and she doesn’t speak as they walk to the canteen, or when they sit down to eat. Clint doesn’t push her, and talks instead to Jimmy Woo, who’s on the Helicarrier temporarily for a series of meetings. Clint doesn’t ask him what about – he knows he won’t get an answer. Jimmy finishes before they do, and sends Natasha a small smile before he gets up, which she either doesn’t see or just ignores. Clint shrugs at Jimmy, who shakes his head and leaves, not minding. 

They walk out together, and Clint looks down at her. “You okay?” 

She frowns and waits until they’re alone in the corridor before she looks back up at him. “I liked the CD.” 

“Oh,” he brightens. “Great! It’s yours now then. You want to train at all tonight?” 

“I…” she looks down again and frowns harder, determined. “No. No, thank you. I’ll just go to bed.” 

“Okay,” he shrugs and they turn down the hall their rooms are on. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He goes to open his door, and he’s halfway in when Natasha speaks. 

“Clint.” 

It’s the first time she’s said his name. She’s never needed to before, because they’ve always been in each other’s company. He supposes it’s that odd sort of intimacy that’s prompted her to use his first name instead of Barton, or Agent Barton. It’s more familiar than he would have expected, but not unwelcome. He smiles, strangely happy that she seems to be opening up. “Yeah?” 

“Thank you. For the CD.” 

“You’re welcome,” he nods. “Any time.” 

The corner of her lips moves up in a small smile, and it’s not a smirk, and it doesn’t come with raised eyebrows or narrowed eyes. She looks young and startlingly lovely when she smiles like this, and when she turns and walks down the hall to her own room, Clint thinks that he’ll stick with her for as long as she’ll let him to try and get her to smile like that again. 

 

 

It shouldn’t surprise him that Natasha’s supervised missions are all going to be supervised by him (and Coulson, on the other end of the earpieces in their ears), but for some reason it does. Still, he swallows it down, suits up, and gets on with his job. Their first mission together has them posing as a couple, paying for the honeymoon suite at a beautiful hotel in Belgium. They’re there to prevent an assassination happening in the room exactly one floor below them. Natasha’s steely right up until they step out of the SHIELD car and into the car park of the hotel. In the space of two seconds, she becomes a demurely smiling, utterly smitten newlywed. Clint feels like he’s made of wood next to her effortless charm. She kisses his cheek after they get their keys, and drops the act the moment they step into the elevator. 

“Wow,” he stares at her, and she raises a single eyebrow, chilly Natasha once again. 

“What?” 

“You’re a great actress.” 

“I wouldn’t have gotten far if I wasn’t.” 

True. 

They complete the mission easily, and Coulson gives them both a pleased nod when he meets them on the jet back to the Helicarrier. That mission seems to be the decider of a question, and Clint finds himself being shipped off on missions with Natasha almost every time he leaves the Helicarrier. Somewhere along the way, slipped between a gunfight with a group of drug smugglers and every time they clean out the minibar in whichever hotel room they’re given, they discover that they work well together. 

Natasha puts on her mascara with the care and attention of a surgeon in the mornings, never eats more than a slice of toast or a croissant for breakfast, and never lets him see her naked. They’re careful not to touch when they slide into bed together (a rare, but not stressful occasion), but it’s somehow not weird if they wake up pressed against each other. Clint takes care to give Natasha as much space as she indicates that she wants, and becomes familiar enough with her habits that they don’t faze him at all anymore. Given the time and the hot water, she can spend up to half an hour in the shower. She doesn’t like black coffee. Her smiles become more regular when it’s just the two of them, often accompanied by a sarcastic remark concerning his manners or taste in television (even though she will watch Teen Titans with him, and he knows she has a soft spot for Avatar: The Last Airbender). 

They’re on a long mission in an apartment in Botswana when Clint’s woken up abruptly in the middle of the night by some sort of sniper sense. He’s out of the bed and reaching for his bow before he’s really awake, because he trusts his gut more than his brain, but when nothing stirs, he realises that Natasha hasn’t woken up. Usually, she’s as alert as he is, so when his brain catches up to what’s happening, he’s surprised. 

Natasha’s eyes are screwed closed, her face contorted, and he realises with a swooping feeling in his stomach that she’s having some kind of nightmare. She doesn’t thrash around or make a single noise, but her lips peel back in a silent snarl that show her teeth grinding together. He kneels on the bed and leans close. “Natasha? Natasha, wake up. Natasha!” his hand hovers uncertainly over her shoulder, not sure whether to touch her or not. “Come on, Natasha, wake up now, come on. Natasha, wake up!” 

Her eyes snap open and Clint only just manages to catch the fist she swings at his head. “It’s me!” he whispers loudly. “Natasha, it’s just me, it’s Clint, it’s alright.” 

She stares at him in silence for a long moment, her smaller fist trembling slightly in his. “Clint,” she says finally. “Hawkeye.” 

“Uh huh,” he nods warily. “Can I let you go now?” 

She pulls her hand away from his and sits up. He pulls away and watches as she runs a hand through her dark red curls, pulling her knees up to her chest and taking deep breaths. “I woke you up?” she says after a while. 

“I think so,” he nods, crossing his legs. “You gonna be okay?” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Do you want me to sleep on the couch?” 

She glances over at him, expression mostly hidden in the dark shadows. “Would you mind?” 

He likes that she doesn’t try to play it off as nothing. They’ve been working together for months now, and this is the first time her tough exterior has ever cracked without her control. Natasha, Clint’s come to realise, is all about control. “No, it’s cool,” he shakes his head and slides off the bed, snagging his pillow and the blanket they kicked onto the floor earlier. “See you in the morning.” 

 

 

Natasha’s gone when he wakes up, so he takes a shower. When he gets out ten minutes later, she’s sitting at the table, a cup of black coffee waiting for him. “Thanks,” he says, coming to sit next to her. Neither of them care that he’s only wearing a towel. She nods and pulls a piece of bread into pieces on her plate. 

“The Red Room killed more Black Widows than it used,” she says suddenly, eyes still on her plate. Clint stares at her, but doesn’t speak. He won’t push. “Only a certain kind of girl ever made it through. The rest died off. Or were killed off.” She moves her head to the side as if she’s going to look at him, but she keeps her eyes down. “You can ask, if you like.” 

“You were one of the ones who made it through?” he says, quiet. He doesn’t want to push her too hard. 

“Obviously.” She tears the bread into smaller pieces, a small frown on her face. “To decide who was going through to the next level, sometimes there would be competitions. Occasionally you had to kill off your competitors.” 

Clint’s silent, taking that in. If Natasha was only fifteen when she escaped, she would have been no more than a child when she was forced to do these things. 

“I shared some training sessions with a girl called Anya,” Natasha continues, still not looking at him. “We were both exceptional. They called us Drakov's daughters, because that was what our handler called himself. To decide which of us was to pass the final test, he told each of us to kill the other. I won. Coulson called – we have to be ready to leave in half an hour.” She gets up and takes the plate to the small kitchenette, leaving Clint spinning in the wake of her abrupt subject change. He gets dressed and they’re ready when Coulson calls again with orders. He doesn’t push, and when they leave the apartment, Natasha brushes her shoulder against his arm more than necessary. Physical contact is another big deal for her, so he takes it for the gesture of gratitude it is. 

That first confession opens a crack of sorts in Natasha’s dam, and she tells him more and more over the next few months. By the time the anniversary of her joining SHIELD approaches, Clint knows more about the Red Room than anyone else outside of the facility itself. The picture Natasha has painted for him is not a pretty one, and it’s far from complete, but it’s definitely more than she’s ever given up freely to anyone before. 

Natasha doesn’t remember any other place. She tells him that her earliest memories are of isolation and training tests. She would eat sometimes in a large white cafeteria with other girls, sometimes on her own. She remembers fragments of lessons where she learned how to walk, how to talk, sit, eat, smile, sleep, move, breathe. She was trained literally from birth to be the perfect spy. She thinks that she was operated on numerous times, but she can’t remember, and that’s the worst thing of all – she tells him that the Red Room specialised in memory implant, extraction, and modification. She has memories that she knows can’t exist, and she can do things she has absolutely no memory of learning how to do. She can speak fluent Latin, but she doesn’t remember any lessons in the subject at all. She tells him she has vivid memories of dancing in the corps of the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow, but she knows that this is impossible, because she hardly ever left the Red Room facility. 

Her memories of the Red Room are a jumbled mess of inaccuracies and impossibilities, and Clint is sure that it’s the lack of control that frustrates her more than anything. Her nightmares are rare, but Clint makes it clear after the first one that he will do whatever she needs to feel comfortable and safe again. They’re back on the Helicarrier in a lull between missions when Natasha knocks on the door of his room in the early hours of the morning and asks if he wants to train with her. 

It’s at least three hours too early for him to get up, but he swings his legs out of bed regardless and throws some clothes on. They’re alone in the training room, unsurprisingly, and Natasha walks right onto the sparring floor and starts warming up, stretching and doing handstands, hair tied in a neat bun at the base of her neck. Clint’s a little more sluggish, but she waits until he’s ready and then beckons him forward. They haven’t exchanged a word since she invited him in, and he knows that this isn’t going to be one of those sessions where they chat between throwing punches. Natasha’s face is shuttered, eyes narrow. She’s had a nightmare, and she means business. 

“Don’t hold back,” she warns him. 

“I don’t plan to,” he says, and that’s all the preparation he gets before she attacks. 

With nothing but skin, they’re evenly matched – Clint’s bigger and stronger, but Natasha’s faster and better at using the environment to her advantage. She clambers halfway up one of the metal poles at the edge of the floor, past the protective padding strapped around it, and when he pauses to steady himself, she launches herself at him feet-first. He only just manages not to get flipped around onto his back, her thighs like iron around his neck. He grabs them and pries them apart. She slams the heel of her palm into his ear. He drops to the floor and gets his leg over her side, his calf across her neck. He levers her off his shoulders, she rolls and aims a punch for his throat that he blocks. He’s not fast enough to deflect the kick to his abdomen, but through the pain he grabs her foot before she can pull it back and yanks it. She lands on her ass and he uses the time to stumble to his feet. She’s up as fast as he is and they’re at it again. 

For a few minutes they go through the motions, but then Natasha’s eyes blaze and he finds himself driven back by the sheer speed of the blows she’s lashing out at him with everything she has. He blocks fists, feet, elbows, knees, her head, and he only just manages to dart away and back into the centre before she drives him off the floor. Her hair has come undone, and the curls bounce on her shoulders as she whips her head around furiously and comes for him again. He absorbs one blow, ducks another, blocks a knee aimed for his aching stomach, head-butts her to try and slow her down enough for him to at least fight back, but she won’t be stopped. She skids back and spins on one toe, her other foot flying through the air, the heel slamming into his head hard enough to knock him to the side. She crouches; hand grabbing his weakened ankle to make him trip and fall, and when he’s on his back she punches his kneecap. It hurts like hell, but he only grunts and kicks her in the side with his other foot. She coughs and he rolls up and uses the momentum to crash into her, tackling her clumsily to the floor. 

She gets a knee between them and shoves him off, but she doesn’t get up again, and when she doesn’t, Clint doesn’t bother either. They lie next to each other on the floor and pant, exhausted and sweaty, for several minutes. 

“Thank you,” she says, voice loud in the empty room. “For always being ready to do something like this with me.” 

“No problem,” Clint’s still breathing heavily. “You keep me in shape, that’s for sure.” 

They look at each other and smile. Clint laughs and they both go back to looking at the ceiling, too tired to move, even though they should be stretching to keep themselves limber. 

“Up late, aren’t you?” a familiar voice comes from the door, and they both sit up quickly. Clint’s abdomen and stomach protest at the sudden movement, but he relaxes when he sees that it’s Coulson. 

“Speak for yourself,” he says, and Coulson smiles, gesturing to the seats at the edge of the room where people watch the sparring matches sometimes. 

They sit in a line, Coulson, Clint, then Natasha, and Coulson turns so that he can see them both easily. “Congratulations,” he says to Natasha, who frowns and shakes her hair back from her face. 

“What?” 

“You don’t know?” he smiles, crooked and wry. “Today is the anniversary of your arrival here. You’re officially a SHIELD agent now, with full level five security clearance, same as Agent Barton. Congratulations.” 

“I had to pass the one-year mark?” she sounds surprised, still a little breathless. 

“Of course,” Coulson nods. “Director Fury decided that a year would be long enough for us to be sure that you weren’t trying to destroy us from the inside. As of today, you will no longer have to be paired with Agent Barton on field missions. I believe your first solo mission is being processed as we speak.” 

“People are still awake?” Clint stares at him.

“No, the Helicarrier maintains itself while you happen to be sleeping,” Natasha says sarcastically. “Of course there’s a night crew. Idiot.” 

“Your charm is one of the many qualities you possess that I can’t help loving,” Clint grins at her and she swats his shoulder lightly. Coulson just smiles, and Clint knows why. This time last year, such honest behaviour from Natasha would have been unthinkable. Now, it’s normal, and Clint knows that she’s still hiding parts of herself. He’s waiting for the day when she feels comfortable enough to let her guard down completely, but he’s fully aware that that day may never come. 

“Why are you still up?” Natasha asks Coulson, who raises his eyebrows. 

“Who says I stayed awake all night? It is past five in the morning, you know.” 

“Getting up that early is a punishment, and I don’t understand why you do it,” Clint tells him seriously. 

“I like the birdsong.” 

“We’re in the middle of the ocean right now.” 

“And the sunrises are therefore exceptionally beautiful.” 

“You don’t watch the sun rise!” 

“And you would know that how, exactly?” 

“Children,” Natasha cuts in, amused smirk in place. 

Clint pouts and plays along, pointing at Coulson and saying, “He started it!” 

“Then I’m finishing it,” she says, getting up and tucking her hair behind her ears. “Showers. Now.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint rolls his eyes, but gets up obediently. He’s aware that he probably stinks right now. Coulson gets to his feet behind him and smooths down his suit. 

“Natasha, you’ll have a briefing later this morning,” Coulson tells her before she walks into the changing rooms. She nods and leaves, and Clint pauses before following her, looking back at Coulson. 

“How come you call her Natasha? You never call me by my first name.” 

“You never call me by mine,” Coulson says mildly, but Clint can hear the challenge there even though he’s sure no one else ever would. 

“Hm.” He grins and pushes the door to the changing rooms open. “See you later, _Phil_.” 

“I can’t wait, Agent Barton,” Coulson gives Clint his best innocent smile and turns away before Clint can say anything more, but he resolves to call Coulson by his first name as often as he can get away with from now on. 

 

 

Natasha’s on a mission out of the country when Clint’s asked to accompany Coulson to a meeting with General Ross’ sector. The General won’t necessarily be there, but Coulson knows how to work around things like that. As far as Clint can tell, he does this by threatening, cajoling, and reasoning the underlings into doing little favours for him here and there. It’s his version of keeping up a good relationship with the canteen staff. 

“What am I here to do again?” Clint asks, shifting uncomfortably as they wait on the airstrip for one of the general’s jeeps to pick them up. 

“Look intimidating, make Ross’ security look like overpaid thugs, and make me look superior when I go in.” 

“Will I have to sit in on these meetings?” 

“No. There’s another reason I thought you might want to come along, Agent Barton.” 

 _Barney_. Clint glances sideways at Coulson, ignoring the approaching jeep. “My brother’s here?”

“First Sergeant Barton is indeed currently residing on this particular base.” 

Clint looks forward again and tries to process this. Barney had sprung to mind the moment he heard he was going to Ross’ neck of the woods, but he hadn’t allowed himself to get his hopes up. Now it seems that he’ll be seeing his big brother for the first time in…he does the math quickly in his head and realises with shock that he hasn’t seen Barney for sixteen, nearly seventeen years. Last time he saw Barney, he was a ropey eighteen year-old who looked out of place in the bright whirl and noise of the circus in his ragged thrift store clothes. Clint can’t remember the last time he _actually_ saw Barney. His clearest memory of that time is of sitting down on his bed and reading the short note Barney left. The shock of it. Barney never spoke a word about his thoughts of leaving to Clint. 

Maybe now he’ll have the chance to ask why. 

He shoots another sidelong look at Coulson, who’s just standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the jeep approach like he has all the time in the world. Clint opens his mouth, but it still takes a moment for the words to come. “Hey, Phil?” 

“Yes, Agent Barton?” 

“You didn’t need me along for this at all, did you?” 

“Not as such.” 

“…thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Coulson looks at him and smiles slightly just as the jeep pulls up and a soldier leaps out and salutes. It’s all Clint can do not to laugh. Sometimes new recruits salute at SHIELD. They learn to stop when the only result is sniggers hidden behind hands. 

Coulson is whisked away into a conference room immediately, and he gives Clint a significant look before the door closes. Clint nods and finds the nearest soldier to direct him to wherever he can find Barney. Who is no longer gangly, ginger Barney Barton, he has to remind himself as he searches for his brother, but First Sergeant Barton. He can’t imagine it. And when he does find him, walking along the hot tarmac on the way to the barracks, he almost doesn’t recognise him. 

“Barney?” he stares. 

“Can I help you?” the man glares at him against the sun, and then frowns. “Hey, do I know you?” 

“You should,” Clint grins. “We lived in a truck together for about five years.” 

Barney gapes. “ _Clint?_ ” 

Clint spreads his hands and laughs. “Surprise.” 

“Holy shit,” Barney moves around so that he isn’t squinting into the sun and looks Clint up and down for a long moment before opening his arms. “Well come here, little brother!” 

Clint laughs and they step into an embrace that miraculously isn’t awkward. The relief that floods through Clint at the touch is like a drug or something, flowing through his body and relaxing him. He hadn’t realised how tense he was before this. “Good to see you too,” he smiles as they draw apart. Barney’s grinning, amazed, and Clint’s heartened by how pleased he seems to see him again. 

“I can’t believe it!” he slaps Clint’s shoulder and laughs, and that hasn’t changed at all. “How the hell –? I can’t believe you’re here! What are you doing here?” 

“I’m with SHIELD’s liaison agent.” 

“SHIELD?” Barney makes a face. “Urgh. What, they got bored and decided to come and harangue us in their spare time? Give me a break.” 

Clint raises his eyebrows, amused. “Why don’t I tell you who I work for, Barn?” 

Barney stares at him for a moment, and winces when he realises. “Oh crap. I blundered right into that, didn’t I?” 

“Pretty spectacularly,” Clint agrees. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“How’d you get mixed up with them?” Barney asks, jerking his head for Clint to follow him off the road and into the shade. 

“Got talent scouted,” Clint grins. 

“What, from Carson’s? SHIELD recruits from civilian circuses now?” 

Clint laughs. “They recruited me from the army, Barn. I joined when I was twenty.” 

Barney looks delighted. “No shit! I can’t believe it took you that long to leave Carson’s, man. I suppose they paid you better than they did me.” 

Clint shrugs. “I left in ’94, spent a year on the road.” 

“Just you?” Barney leans his shoulder against the wall. “On your own?” 

Clint smiles crookedly and tells him about Lori. Barney whistles and gestures for Clint to go on, so he does. He tells Barney about enlisting and being sent abroad, tells him about Coulson appearing from nowhere and spiriting him away to the SHIELD base in New York. He can’t tell Barney about his missions, of course, but he tells him about being sent all over the world and being able to use his bow whenever he wants. 

“You really got lucky, didn’t you?” Barney snorts when he’s done, and turns to look out across the base. “You were always luckier than me.” 

“How’d you figure that?” 

Barney laughs, and it doesn’t have much humour in it now. “You can barely remember our parents, right?” 

“Right.” Clint shifts, slightly uncomfortable with the direction their conversation is taking. 

“Lucky. I remember dad. Mom tried to leave once, you know,” he glances at Clint, a faraway look in his eyes. “Not that long before the crash. You must’ve been about three. Dad got drunk and hit you so hard you fractured your arm. Mom and me…we couldn’t do anything. But she tried to leave as soon as you were better. He’d hit me around before. Never broken anything, but still battered me pretty bad. But he laid a hand on you too hard and she was ready to run. She didn’t make it, obviously, but she still tried for you.” 

Clint doesn’t know what to say. It’s true – he really doesn’t remember much of their parents. He has no memory of their faces. He remembers their old house, but very little else. He doesn’t remember fracturing his arm, or this escape attempt Barney’s talking about. Barney hangs his head and sighs, and while Clint’s still trying to figure out what to say, he goes on. 

“It was like that in the circus, a bit. You were smaller and cuter when we joined – you were so blonde when you were a kid, do you remember that? So you were the Swordsman’s assistant. And then when Trickshot showed you how to shoot, well. You were a real star attraction. And I was stuck setting up tents and taking care of the animals, doing food runs and stuff. I guess I didn’t realise at the time that I was just jealous of you.” He looks at Clint, a small smile dancing around his lips. “Been wanting to say this for a while, I think. It’s shit being the big brother and not being needed. It’s even worse being overshadowed. I nearly didn’t enlist at all, but I just wanted to be better than you at something. I had to get away. We weren’t all that close anyway, were we?” he looks away again, and the silence fills up the space left behind by his words. 

This isn’t what Clint was expecting. He frowns and looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, sounding smaller than he intended. 

Barney smiles and clasps his shoulder in a big hand. “Don’t be,” he says warmly. “It’s fine. I’m okay now. I was a frustrated kid when I ran out of Carson’s. I’m all grown up now, little brother. And so are you. And I know you never meant to make me feel bad or anything. It’s not your fault.” 

Clint sneaks a suspicious glance at him. “Did you get therapy? I swear you never used to be this mellow.” 

Barney laughs. “No therapy. I’m just happy here. I like what I do, and I’m good at it. I’m looking to be promoted pretty soon.” 

“Good for you,” Clint says, brightening up a little.

“And since you were only a specialist when you got pulled out by SHIELD, I still outrank you,” Barney grins. “Suck on that, Hawkeye.” 

“Eat me,” Clint grins, punching Barney’s arm. “I’m a special secret agent now. Some respect would be nice.” 

“A super special secret agent with a bow and arrow,” Barney snorts. “I don’t respect Disney characters, Robin Hood.” 

“Harsh,” Clint says, but he’s still smiling. He opens his mouth to say more, but his phone goes off. He shrugs at Barney and takes it out. “Barton.” 

“We’re leaving,” Coulson tells him. He doesn’t sound happy. “Sorry to have to cut your reunion short, but I’ll meet you out front in five minutes.” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint keeps the sigh out of his voice. “See you there.” He hangs up and gives Barney a rueful look. “I gotta go.” 

“I get it,” Barney pulls him into a tight hug. “We should meet up again soon. Next time I’ve got leave – what’s your number?” 

Clint pulls a pen from his pocket and writes his number quickly on the palm of Barney’s hand. “Next time, I’ll buy you a drink,” he says, and Barney laughs. 

“I’m definitely holding you to that,” he says. “See you around, little brother.” 

Clint grins and salutes before jogging off to where Coulson’s waiting. He does not look pleased at all. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell, but Clint sobers up when he sees the tightness in the corners of Coulson’s mouth and the rigid line of his shoulders. His fists aren’t clenched, but his thumb is pressed hard against the knuckle of his index finger, which is Coulson’s version of the gesture. They get in the jeep and don’t speak until they’re on the jet. 

“You look like you need a drink,” Clint tells him. Coulson sighs and forcibly relaxes his fingers.

“I need a distillery.” 

“Ross was there?” 

“He was not.” Coulson narrows his eyes and pulls a pile of paperwork towards him. “Ross is on a hunting trip that is of his own making.” 

Clint considers this and speaks slowly and carefully. “Is this sensitive information, sir?” 

“Extremely sensitive.” 

“Too sensitive for me?” 

Coulson glares down at the open folder on the table between them. “You may well be one of the agents we have to dispatch to deal with this if it gets much worse.” 

Clint frowns. “Sir?” 

Coulson sighs and looks up. “How much do you know about the super soldier program, Barton?” 

“The super soldier program?” Clint raises his eyebrows. “What, you mean like Captain America?” 

“Exactly like Captain America, yes,” Coulson nods, “but while Captain America was a hero made great by brilliant men, the incident I’m speaking of was one idiot overreaching himself and creating a monster.” 

Clint stares and logs away the part about Coulson calling Captain America a hero – he’s never heard Coulson speak of anyone like that before, and Coulson’s the kind of man who takes the definition of _hero_ very seriously. 

“Last year,” Coulson continues, “General Ross authorised military funding to be given to a team of scientists working on replicating the super soldier serum. The serum was created by a German scientist called Dr Erskine for use on Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers was the first and only successful super soldier – Erskine was shot by an enemy spy before he could repeat his success. Even worse, his notes did not contain the full formula – quite sensibly, he believed that the information would be safer if it was in his head and nowhere else. Unfortunately, that means that Ross’ team of scientists was working with unfinished and unrefined data. The team was led by Dr Bruce Banner, and included Ross’ own daughter. Banner believed that gamma radiation held the key to replicating the original formula. He was successful, after a fashion.” He grimaces, and Clint pulls a face. 

“Let me guess, he got so convinced he was right, he tested it on himself?” 

Coulson sighs. “Banner’s smarter than that. No, there was an accident in the preliminary testing phase, and Banner was on the end of it.” 

“He died?” 

“He became a monster,” Coulson rubs a hand across his forehead. “Or something to that effect. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what happened, and Ross is doing his level best to stop me. As far as I can tell, Banner transformed into something capable of ripping his lab at Culver University to pieces and breaking out of one of the most secure underground military facilities in America. According to the information I’ve managed to glean from the meeting this morning, Banner does not remain this creature all the time, but switches back and forth with almost no control over the process.” 

Clint absorbs this and sits back in his chair. “Sounds like something out of a science fiction movie, doesn’t it?” 

“I very much wish this was fictional,” Coulson says. “The paperwork this event is generating is reaching record-breaking status already. And there’s no way of double checking the reports because Ross is evading me at every turn.” 

“Maybe because his daughter’s involved?” Clint suggests. 

“No,” Coulson shakes his head and frowns, “I think he just doesn’t want SHIELD to get to Banner before he does. From what I got today, he’s convinced that Banner has stolen military secrets. He’s hunting him like he’s possessed.” 

“Wait, so Banner can turn into a monster sometimes whether he wants to or not,” Clint narrows his eyes, “but he’s basically a civilian scientist, and he’s still managed to keep himself out of Ross’ grip for a year? Without any help, while Ross is backed up by a base of soldiers and connections that go all the way up to the White House?” 

“Closer to six months,” Coulson says, “but yes, essentially.” 

Clint hums and puts his ankle up on his knee. “I like him. That’s pretty good.” 

“For him,” Coulson starts writing, “not good for me, or my inbox.” 

Clint falls silent and spends most of the flight back looking out of the window and trying to imagine what sort of monster Dr Banner turns into. 

 

 

On a mission in Spain, Natasha walks barefoot through a fountain, holding her stupidly expensive shoes by their straps. Clint laughs and teases her for not being able to handle the heels, which is how he ends up buying and wearing glittery four-inch heels for a week when they get back to the Helicarrier. He gets blisters, but pretends he can’t feel a thing as he struts down the corridors and waltzes into the canteen each day. At the end, Natasha and a few of the other female agents make him a tiara out of cardboard, tinsel, and glitter, and crown him ‘the prettiest princess ever’. Clint accepts graciously and contemplates burning the shoes for causing him so much pain. 

It’s because he knows how horrific high heels are that he somehow isn’t surprised when Natasha stabs someone in the neck with one of her stilettos in Sydney on New Year’s. 2007 finds them hiding on the edge of Garigal National Park, laying low, because SHIELD can’t bail them out of such a populous area. 

“Did the heels get to you or something?” Clint hisses. They’re both tired and pissed off with each other. Natasha still hasn’t given him an explanation for stabbing a random guest at the party in the neck, and he’s getting angrier by the moment. “Because I wore those glittered monstrosities for a whole week and I still managed to resist losing my head and _killing someone_ _with them_.” 

“Later,” is all Natasha will say, and Clint wants to shake her he’s so hacked off, but he reigns himself in and they work through the mess. Their mission is a complete failure, and they’re on the run in very conspicuous outfits – tuxedoed men and women in evening dresses aren’t normal in the daytime, especially not in in Australian heat. Clint’s already sweating, and he thinks Natasha is going to get sunburn across her bare shoulders soon. 

Later for Natasha means when they’re both back in a safe environment that she feels familiar with, and Clint comes as close as he ever has to pushing her hard for answers, because they end up being stuck in Sydney for three days before SHIELD can get them out, and no one looks pleased to see them. Coulson’s off somewhere else, but Clint knows him well enough to expect a meeting in his office, probably with a lecture attached for good measure. He hates getting lectured. 

When they finally land back on the Helicarrier, Clint waits until they’re out of medical and alone before he turns on Natasha, ready to break something. “Well?” 

“Well?” Natasha raises an eyebrow and he wants to scream. 

“Cut the bullshit,” he snaps. “You owe me an explanation. What the hell was going through your head, Nat?" 

“Can we not do this here?” she asks, looking at the empty corridor very pointedly. 

“Fine,” he jerks his head in the direction of the nearest flight of stairs. “Coming?” 

She follows him as he goes down two floors and opens the door to his room. “Thank you,” she says, closing the door behind her. 

“You’re welcome,” he growls, still pissed. “Now would you mind filling me in? I’m lost on the part where you decided that it was a viable course of action to slip off your shoe and stab a random guy in the neck with it. Did I _miss_ that part of the briefing or something?” 

“He recognised me.” 

Clint stops and stares at her. She looks perfectly calm and composed, which is how he knows that she isn’t at all. “Recognised you?” 

“He wasn’t who he said he was. He visited the Red Room several times. He was one of the men who called the shots, at least indirectly. He…” she falters. “I danced for him once,” she goes on, frowning unhappily. “I think it must have been a demonstration of how well the facility could plant false memories. He was pleased. I remember him laughing. He saw me with you at the function and he recognised me.” 

“So you stabbed him?” Clint sits down on his narrow bed and Natasha comes to sit next to him, keeping a space between them. 

“I had to kill him.” She frowns and clasps her hands lightly on her knees. “I had to. I don’t even know what was going on in my mind. I recognised him at once, but as soon as he looked at me and realised who I was, I just…” 

“The nearest weapon was your shoe?” Clint’s still a bit nonplussed. 

“Getting to my knives would’ve meant hitching up my dress. There wasn’t time. The heel was practical.” 

“But why?” Clint frowns, confused. “Why did you have to kill him? Knocking him out would’ve been better. Still not great, but better than shoving a four inch stiletto through his throat.” 

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, and her hands curl around each other and squeeze hard enough to turn her knuckles white. 

Clint pauses. “Natasha?” 

“I don’t know why I did it,” she continues, hands almost shaking with the strength of her own grip. “I don’t know. I had to kill him. I don’t know why.” 

Clint reaches over and pries her hands apart. She looks at him, frown in place. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “I think I get it.” Her fingers twine with his but don’t squeeze harder than necessary. “It could be behavioural conditioning, right? You said they trained you to react in certain ways to certain stimuli – this could be one of those things.” 

Natasha takes this in, considers it, and seems to accept it as a likely possibility. “It makes sense,” she murmurs. “And I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t even… they made me into their puppet. Pull a string and I obey.” 

“You’re no one’s puppet,” Clint snorts. 

“I thought I wasn’t,” she shakes her head, long hair falling forward and hiding her expression. “But how can I consider myself to be a free agent if I still respond to triggers like this? I was created to be the perfect soldier-spy, and I am. I’m better than anyone else. I killed when I was told to, tortured on command, destroyed my competition – I did everything they wanted me to and more.” 

“But you broke out,” Clint strokes the back of her hand with his thumb. “You’re not their toy.” 

“I haven’t told you how I broke out, have I?” 

Clint shakes his head slowly. “You haven’t.” 

“You’ve never asked.” 

“I figured you’d tell me if you wanted to. Do you want to?” 

“I planned my escape. Since killing Anya…she was the closest thing to a friend I’d ever had, but I hadn’t hesitated. I killed her and the commanders praised me. I planned their deaths, even though I knew I would never be able to carry them out.” Natasha takes a deep breath, eyes cold and hard like steel. “They thought I was their greatest success. And in a way, I was. I was so good I fooled my handlers. I can make myself sick, you know. I was trained to be able to do that. I threw up, forced myself to sweat and shake, and they got worried. I’d never done anything outside of their orders before, so they didn’t even think I would ever act on my own desires. They sedated me and removed me from the facility. I woke up in one of their hospitals. There were certain places that were theirs, you see. Some buildings they would keep under their control – schools, offices that handled sensitive information…and hospitals. I could tell it was one of theirs when I woke up. It’s not like they would have taken me anywhere else. 

“I pretended to be weak. There were three doctors in the room with me, two nurses, and one of the Room’s heavy men. I killed them all. I knew the commanders would have been watching. I killed the cameras and waited, and they came. I killed them as well. Eighteen armed men, and I dispatched them like flies. And then I locked the hospital up and burned it to the ground.” 

Clint’s never heard her like this before. Usually, she tells him of her past in snippets here and there, sometimes lightly, in throw-away remarks. Now her voice is emotionless and empty, and he has to supress a shiver. Natasha’s voice is deep, and she can often sound hard, even cruel, but Clint’s learned to pick up the currents beneath the surface. Her voice is the way she communicates with him – she’s an excellent actress, but at rest her face is schooled. She told him once that she was made to be expressionless unless stated otherwise because it would preserve her natural beauty, which was just another weapon. Her face can be as blank as a piece of paper, but her voice will be passionate and intense. 

He wonders if the way she’s speaking now is the way she used to sound when she spoke in the Red Room. 

“I was almost ready to be moved up into the next level,” she says in the same empty voice. “They would have called me sixteen then. But I burned the hospital down and ran away. There were innocent people in there. Children. Babies. But I didn’t care. I killed five more people and stole some of their clothes and all of their money. I didn’t know that I knew how to drive until I tried, and it was all there in my mind.” She moves her head towards his slightly, still not looking at him, and her voice has something in it when she says, “Who knows what else they’ve put in there?” 

Clint moves on instinct, his hand moving up behind Natasha’s back to slide fingers gently through her long hair, close to the roots. He slows for a second, ready to retreat, but she says nothing and he keeps running his fingers through the red curls, wondering why he’s doing it. “It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly, other hand still holding hers. “Whatever else is hidden in there, it doesn’t matter. You’re not theirs anymore. You haven’t been theirs for years.” 

“So what am I?” she asks, suddenly bitter. “SHIELD’s?” 

“You’re your own,” Clint says, and realises as he says it that it’s obvious. “You’re a better survivor than anyone else here, probably even better than Fury. If SHIELD was destroyed, you’d survive, and you’d keep going. You’re that good. The Red Room might’ve given you the skills, but you’re the one who uses them. You’re more than a weapon, Natasha.” 

“I know that,” she narrows her eyes at the floor. Clint doesn’t stop combing her hair with his fingers. 

“Does it help that you’re not the only one who knows that?” 

She thinks for a long moment. “I think so,” she says at last, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear what she says. 

“Good.” She shifts, and Clint understands. He withdraws his hand from her hair, and she gets up and leaves without another word, the door closing with a definite click behind her. Clint sighs and gets up to change out of his uniform. His clock says it’s ten in the evening and he’s exhausted, but he pulls on his comfiest casuals and gets the mission report file up on his laptop to fill in, because hopefully that’ll go some of the way to getting him back in Coulson’s good books. After this mission, he’s pretty sure him and Natasha are in the doghouse. 

At half eleven, someone knocks on his door, and Clint’s not surprised when he opens it and Natasha walks in, somehow pushing past him without ever touching him. She seems more together now, and he gets that – after telling him things about her, Natasha usually retreats for a while and he’s careful to leave her alone. He trusts that she’ll come back, and so far, she always has. 

“Done your report yet?” he asks, closing the door. She sits on his rumpled bed and he does the same, smiling slightly when she shakes her head. 

“I’ve been in the gym.” 

“You should get on it.” 

“What’ve you written?” 

“Everything apart from your reason for attacking the guy. I didn’t know what to put, so it’s not finished yet. What do you want to say about it?” 

She frowns. “How do you feel about lying in your mission reports?” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” She looks at him in something like surprise, and he smiles crookedly. “Nothing big. I just sometimes feel that not everyone needs to know all the details, especially when they’re concerning my state of mind at the time, y’know?” She nods slowly, and he grins. “What’re we saying then?” 

“He was a former employer of mine,” she says decisively. “He hired me to kill off someone in his business who was getting too close to his involvement in certain covert projects. He recognised me. I panicked.” 

“You sure?” Clint tilts his head. Natasha’s become something of a legend at SHIELD for her excellent poker face and deadpan reactions to surprising news. 

“ _You_ can say I panicked. I’ll say I reacted without thinking the course of action through.” 

“You were emotionally involved?” Clint suggests. She purses her lips, but nods. 

“I already disliked the man. Will that do?” 

“Yeah. Coulson’ll know it’s bullshit.” 

She casts him a knowing look. “And you’ll confirm it for him. You can’t lie to him.” 

Clint shrugs, pretending he doesn’t care. “He won’t tell anyone.” 

She nods, and glances at his hand, resting on the bed between them. He lifts it uncertainly, and when she doesn’t look at him or move away, he raises it to her head and starts carding it through her hair as he had before. It’s nice – Clint’s always had a bit of a thing for textures, and Natasha’s hair is soft and clean. She closes her eyes and shifts a fraction closer on the bed, and he pushes his fingers gently against her scalp. It’s not a massage, but he wouldn’t know what else to call it. Whatever it is, it’s pleasant. The room is warm, they’re both comfortable, and they’re both feeling safe. 

His fingers move down to rub her neck as he strokes through her hair, and they both angle their bodies to face each other as much as they can. Something’s building in the room between them, Clint can feel it. Possibility. Natasha’s hand comes to rest on his knee, and when he doesn’t move away, she moves it up to his thigh. He can feel it through the material of his trousers, firm and warm. They’ve both got blood on their hands, but it doesn’t matter at all because it’s _both_ of them. They’re in this together, as guilty as each other. Clint’s eyelids fall closed for a lazy moment, and he feels Natasha move closer. The hand buried in her hair cups the back of her skull as she kisses him, and it’s not _romantic_ exactly, but it’s more than friendship – a deeper connection. 

When she pulls away, they look at each other and smile. It’s a quiet moment that Clint feels they’ve carved out for themselves. He knows suddenly, with a sort of pull in his chest, that he can rely on Natasha for anything. He wants her to know that she can rely on him too – he’s always liked it when people around him knew that they could trust him – so he hooks his foot over her ankle and dips in for another kiss. They’re both gentle, and that’s precious because they both know how strong the other is. 

They kiss for a while, getting closer on the bed until they’re almost in each other’s laps, arms tangled and legs entwined, but in a way it’s almost chaste. It’s more about comfort and reassurance than anything else, and Clint likes it. When they do pull away and lean their foreheads together, mouths dry and eyes half-closed, he swallows before speaking. “This is okay, right? This isn’t gonna blow up into something we can’t handle?” 

“You mean a committed romantic relationship?” Natasha smirks slightly, and he grins. 

“Kinda. I mean, I’m up for trying if you are, but –” 

“No,” she shakes her head. “This is good.” 

“Good,” he smiles and closes his eyes for a moment. “We should have, I don’t know, guidelines or something.” 

“Guidelines?” 

“Yeah. We’re not dating, right?” 

“Right.” 

“So no exclusive rights to the other person or anything, right?” 

“Clint, shut up.” 

He pulls back to argue and she kisses him gently on the lips. “We’re fine,” she tells him quietly. “Don’t try and overthink anything. You’ll only give yourself a headache.” 

“The way you hold my intelligence in high regard has always charmed me.”

“I’m glad you noticed.” 

“I’ve always had excellent observational skills.” 

She snorts, and he chuckles, and she lifts a hand and runs it slowly through his hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says. He nods, they kiss once more, and she leaves. He strips to his boxers and falls asleep so easily it’s like falling backwards into a pile of feathers. He sleeps better than he has for weeks, and it’s wonderful.


	5. All I Taste Is Blood Between My Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint helps extract Natasha from a mission gone south and picks up the first solid lead SHIELD's had on AIM for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [I'm Ready](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cx7LZxpUS50) by Jack's Mannequin.

Clint knocks on the door and shuffles uncomfortably before Coulson’s voice says, “Come in.” 

“Hey,” he says when he goes in, closing the door behind him and slumping into one of the chairs against the wall. 

“Barton?” Coulson frowns. “What are you doing here?” 

“Hanging out with you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I want to, and you never come to the common room, so this is where it’s gonna have to happen.” 

Coulson doesn’t look impressed. “Do you expect me to entertain you?” 

Clint sighs and shakes his head. “No, don’t worry. I just want to chill out for a bit. Get away from everyone else. You’ll be in here all afternoon, right?” 

“I will.” 

“Can I stay?” 

Coulson levels a look at him from behind his computer screen. They stare at each other for a long moment before he nods. “Fine. But if you distract me, you’re out. Keep quiet, entertain yourself. Clear?” 

“Thanks, Phil.” Clint slides down lower in the chair and pulls his mp3 player out of his pocket, untangling the headphones with deft fingers. Coulson watches him for a minute before he goes back to his work. Clint slides his headphones in, turns up the volume, and relaxes. 

Natasha’s on a mission, he’s waiting to be debriefed from his next one, and Barney called him last night. They spoke for about three hours straight, and now Clint misses the circus fiercely. He closes his eyes and listens to the music that puts him back there, walking between caravans and tents, driving for hours with the radio turned onto rock or country stations. Barney once took him outside in the early hours of the morning and pulled him up onto the top of one of the big loading trucks. They’d stretched out on the cold metal and gazed up at the stars, clear enough to see the Milky Way. 

 _Live and Learn_ by the Cardigans, _Born to Run_ by Bruce Springsteen, _Sir Duke_ by Stevie Wonder. Clint keeps his thumb over the buttons and keeps his eyes closed. He ignores it when people occasionally come in to give Coulson files or ask him questions. He gets coffee for both of them when Coulson asks him to, and he pulls a book off one of the shelves in the office. It has a tiger on the front cover, and he can’t help thinking of Jerry, the old Bengal tiger who had been the star attraction when he joined Carson’s Carnival. He traces the title – _Life of Pi_ – and smiles distantly. Jerry’s keepers, a pair of Japanese brothers called Koichi and Jiro, had let him and Barney stroke Jerry once. 

He looks up just as Coulson leans back in his chair and sighs, looking tired. He looks over when he feels Clint’s eyes on him and raises his eyebrows. “Life of Pi?” 

“It has a tiger on the front,” Clint explains. When Coulson raises his eyebrows and doesn’t go back to his work, Clint smiles. “When Barney and I joined Carson’s there was a tiger called Jerry. He died three or four years later, but he was a great performer. He jumped through flaming hoops and roared on command. He really pulled in the crowds.” 

“Did you have other animals?” 

“Oh sure,” Clint waves a hand and snorts, “you can’t have a decent circus without some good animal acts. Our riders were these girls called Lisa and Polly. They were practically sisters; grew up together from what I could tell. They taught themselves all their own tricks. They had four horses and four ponies at one point – really tiny little ones that were the same colours as the horses. They came up with this trick where they’d run the ponies round the back of the ring and they’d come out on a horse the same colour. It was so smooth it looked like the pony had just grown up in about two seconds flat. Simple, y’know, but people ate it up.” He looks over at Coulson, who’s leaning back in his chair with the smallest hint of a smile on his face. “You ever go to a circus when you were a kid, Phil?” 

Coulson nods slowly. “Once. I can’t remember what it was called, but there was an elephant. And a couple who danced on these silk ropes. I had to buy my own popcorn.” 

Clint laughs. “How old were you?” 

Coulson thinks. “No older than twelve.” 

“I was already part of the show when I was twelve,” Clint grins. 

“You never wanted to go back to normal life?” Coulson asks, sounding almost curious. 

Clint shrugs and shakes his head. “There wasn’t anything for me to go back to, really. Carson’s was better than anything else I’d had so far. I mean, it wasn’t always great – the generators would cut out sometimes, we wouldn’t always have that much food or clean water – the animals had priority over us, you see – and I basically wore rags in the summer. I don’t think I had a pair of my own shoes for about five years.” He laughs and looks up at the ceiling. “It was worth it. Even in winter. Even when the activists would attack us.” 

“Activists?” Coulson sounds genuinely interested. 

“Animal rights, you know. Thought we were exploiting exotic animals, mistreating them for profit, that sort of thing. Like they didn’t get taken care of better than we did half the time.” He rolls his eyes. “They drove us out of town a few times. Doesn’t help ticket sales when you’ve got a dozen angry idiots waving signs outside the booth. Delilah punched one of them in the face once – she got very tetchy if anyone implied she didn’t take good care of her chimps.” 

“She had chimps?” Coulson raises his eyebrows. 

“Two, yeah. Sisters called Annie and Lovely. They lived with her in her caravan. They were basically her children.” 

“What kind of act was it?” 

“Comedy, really. Pretty basic slapstick – the clowns played a big part – but she’d let them show off their climbing on the trapeze and stuff at the end. Leave it on a big bang, y’know?” 

“It must have been pretty spectacular.” 

“It was,” Clint grins and laces his hands behind his head. “Especially when I was a kid. It got worse as ticket sales dropped. Delilah left because she wasn’t getting paid enough. Jerry died. Polly and Lisa got arrested for robbing houses, and Trickshot and the Swordsman both left. Well. The Swordsman was asked to leave – he had a drinking problem.” Clint’s mouth twists unhappily. 

“And your brother left when you were fifteen?” 

“Yeah. And now I’m all nostalgic,” he smiles and looks over at Coulson. “What about Phil Coulson then? Bet you can’t beat me for an exciting childhood.” 

“I certainly wasn’t part of a circus,” Coulson shakes his head. “Nothing quite so interesting. I attended school, received excellent grades –” 

“Of course,” Clint nods. 

“– and I applied for the SHIELD recruitment program. And here I am.” 

“Here you are,” Clint agrees. “I’m glad you are here.” 

“I’m so pleased that I have the Hawkeye stamp of approval,” Coulson tells him dryly, and Clint grins. 

“Treasure it. You’ve earned it.” 

Coulson opens his mouth to reply, but his phone goes off instead. He answers it without missing a bear. “Coulson.” Clint watches, smile fading as Coulson’s face grows quiet and still. He hangs up with a, “Yes, sir,” and gets up quickly. “Barton, with me.” 

“What’s happened?” Clint asks, following Coulson as he walks briskly out of the room. “Is it Natasha?” 

“The Black Widow has completed her mission, but the car we dispatched to retrieve her was destroyed en route.” 

“A trap?” Clint’s voice holds none of the lightness it had only a minute before. 

“She has been notified, but we need an agent on the ground, looking from the outside. Someone with good observation skills.” 

“When do I leave?” 

“At a guess, I’d say half an hour. We’re being briefed by Fury on the bridge in three minutes.” 

Natasha’s in London, so at least Clint doesn’t have to brush up on any foreign languages before he leaves. Coulson comes with him to act as his handler, and Clint is fully aware that he didn’t have to do so, and he is stupidly grateful that he did anyway. They sit next to each other on the flight over, and Coulson lets him press their shoulders together as he checks his arrows over and over. He knows Natasha’s fine. It’s just going to be finding her at the same time as minimising the damage already done that will be the problem. 

He lands and has no trouble finding the warehouse where the smugglers Natasha was watching meets. He watches them and listens. None of them seem to be aware of the SHIELD car that was destroyed, but there are a few Clint is getting vibes from. He lets them all leave unscathed and waits for Coulson to tell him what to do next. It’s difficult, but he trusts Coulson to make the right call. 

“Follow the one with the beard,” he says over Clint’s earpiece. “Natasha had a few things to say about him, apparently.” 

“Can I scare him?” 

“You may.” 

Clint leaps from roof to roof, following the man with the beard. He likes London’s low, haphazard buildings. They’re easy to traverse along for someone like him, and he keeps a close eye on his target until he walks down a long alley. Clint smiles grimly and fires an arrow. It hits the ground in front of the man and sparks, a tiny flare effect. The man jumps and looks around. “Hello?” he says loudly. “Anyone there? Who the fuck –?” he bends down and picks it up, turning it over and frowning at it. While he’s preoccupied, Clint drops silently to the cobbles behind him and waits for the man to turn around. When he does, he cries out in shock, and fumbles in his pocket. Clint tilts his head curiously and realises what it is when the man brandishes his hand and the light catches the edge of a long blade. 

“Cute,” he says flatly, and moves. He disarms the man in seconds, and picks the knife up with a sigh before folding it and putting it in his pocket. “Now, I want to ask you a few things. Mind helping me out here?” 

“Fuck off,” the man snarls, and spits. Clint takes a step to the left and lets the saliva fly past him. 

“Manners cost nothing,” he says, and slams a heavy fist into the man’s stomach. “Let’s try again.” 

The man knows nothing, so Clint knocks him out, slides the knife back into his jacket, and moves onto the next suspicious character at the meeting. 

The next man is the one. Clint knows it the moment he arrives at the block of flats where he lives. A group of boys on bikes with their hoods up heckle him as he walks in, but he ignores them and continues. The man opens the door on a chain when Clint knocks politely. “What?” 

“Got a message,” Clint doesn’t bother trying to put on an English accent – he knows he can’t do one. 

The man narrows his eyes and opens his mouth, and Clint takes a step back and kicks the door open. Instinct makes him flatten himself against the wall next to the door, and he’s just in time – the man swings a gun up and shoots blindly into the hallway. Clint waits until he stops after four shots, and then nocks an arrow and ducks down to shoot the man’s thigh. 

He screams, and Clint ducks back around the doorway as he fires the gun again. No one comes to their doors to get an eyeful, and Clint mentally praises the survival instincts of the residents. The man stops shooting and Clint hears him move backwards, moaning softly. 

He peeks around the corner of the doorframe for a second and draws back just before a bullet bites the wood where his head had just been. “Guy’s got good aim,” he mutters. 

“Any civilian interference?” Coulson asks. 

“No.” He pulls a pocket mirror from his back pocket and angles it on the floor. The man has just turned the corner out of sight. Clint gets to his feet and walks in, closing the door behind him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop shooting at me now, sir. I just want to talk to you.” 

There’s a nasty slick sound and the man makes a pained, drawn-out grunt. “Go fuck yourself,” he says, and laughs. Clint walks to the corner and looks around. The man has lowered himself onto a stained couch and pulled out his arrow, but the gun is still in his hand, and he brings it up with a snarl. “One of Tommy’s, are you?” 

“Not quite,” Clint says slowly, eyes on the gun. “Feel like talking, mister?” 

“Nope,” the man grins nastily and squints at him. “You’re not from here. You’re SHIELD.” 

“Good call,” Clint doesn’t move a muscle. “Seen any other SHIELD personnel recently?” 

“She’ll be dead by now,” the man snorts, and the hand not holding the gun plunges down under the cushions. 

“I wouldn’t count her out so fast,” Clint warns him, and takes a small step forward. The man brandishes the gun immediately. 

“You keep your distance, cowboy. The big boys are playing here.” 

“Yeah, you look real big, bleeding out all over your cheap couch there.” 

The man laughs and pulls the trigger. It grazes his arm as Clint leaps back behind the corner, and he exhales heavily to let Coulson know he’s okay. “Widow’s status?” he murmurs. 

“Confirmed. She’s hiding – avoided a clumsy attempt on her life an hour ago. She’s fine.” 

Clint nods and peers around the edge of the wall again. What he sees makes his blood run cold. The man has pulled what is clearly a home-made bomb from under the cushions, and he’s just finished setting it up. He catches Clint’s eye and grins, and before Clint can stop him, he puts the nozzle of the gun under his chin and blows his brains out over the wall behind him. 

“Shit!” Clint swears, jumping forward to look at the bomb. There’s a device that looks like a butchered digital alarm clock wired into a taped-together line of white bricks. He recognises C4 when he sees it. “C, emergency,” he breathes, hand hovering over the timer, which is reading a countdown of 1:48, and lowering. “Target killed himself. I’ve got a situation here – explosives rigged to go.” He pulls his phone out as he speaks and takes two photographs for the logistics team. 

“How much time do you have?” Coulson’s voice is tight. 

“Under two minutes.” 

“ _Get out_.” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint says. He runs out and finds a fire alarm. He smashes it and then runs back inside and goes through the dead man’s pockets. He takes his wallet and phone, and manages to find his laptop as well. By the time he gets out, there’s only one minute left on the clock. People are only just opening their doors, and Clint pulls his gun out as he sprints to the stairwell and fires two shots into the concrete of the stairs above. “Bomb!” he bellows. “Everyone run!” 

The reaction is instantaneous. Clint nearly falls as screaming people flood down the stairs. He knows even as he runs that not everyone is going to make it. Innocent people are going to die tonight. He’s on the first floor when the building shakes with the blast, and while other people stumble and slow, he pushes through them and keeps running, laptop held steady under his arm. 

“Report,” Coulson barks in his ear. 

“Safe,” Clint gasps, clearing the crowd and sprinting away into the warren of streets. He barely notices where he’s running. “The Widow?” 

“Still grounded.” 

“Orders?” 

“Stay low, make sure you’re alone.” 

“Right.” Clint swerves down a dead-end next to a pub and leans heavily against the wall. The adrenaline won’t wear off for another minute or so, and he pants heavily while he waits for his heart to stop beating a frantic tattoo against his ribs. “Orders?” he asks once he’s got his breath back. 

“The explosion appears to have served as some sort of signal,” Coulson says distractedly. “Black Widow is holed up in an abandoned building in Deptford.” 

“Where am I?” 

“Deptford. Are you recovered?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then follow my directions exactly.” 

Clint runs, and stashes the laptop under a bush before he reaches the street the building is on. There are several dark shapes moving around the place, and he narrows his eyes and pulls an arrow from his quiver. “Permission to kill?” 

“Authorised.” 

There are several gunshots from the large house, on one of the top floors, and Clint moves. Three men are dead before the others realise what’s going on, and Clint takes the others out easily enough. He circles the perimeter before entering the building, following the sound of the gunshots. He kills five other men on the way up to the attic, and as he finishes climbing the last flight of stairs, a door on the top corridor slams to the ground, a dark-clothed man on top of it, and Natasha on top of him. She has a knife buried in his neck, and she moves to the side as blood spurts out. Clint rushes forward and grabs his left hand, which is holding a gun, before he can point it at Natasha. He shoots the ceiling instead, and gargles unpleasantly before he dies. 

Natasha has blood on her face, and her hair is down around her shoulders. “Hey,” she says, flicking a strand out of her eyes. “You took your time.” 

“Almost got blown up,” he shrugs, standing up and nocking another arrow just in case something else happens. 

“Cry me a river,” she straightens as well, pulling her knife out of the dead man’s throat with a sick sucking sound and flicking blood off it before wiping it on the man’s front. “I just survived two assassination attempts.” 

“How many men in the one before this?” 

“Five.” 

Clint snorts and jerks his head towards the stairs. “That’s not an assassination attempt. That’s a joke. For you anyway.” 

“True,” she smirks and follows him. 

“Hawkeye,” Coulson says in his ear, “report.” 

“Black Widow located, enemies down. We’re on our way out. Orders?” 

“There’s a car on its way to your location. I want you to follow my directions. Go out the back way, through the kitchen. Go through the garden and through the gate at the end. There’s a footpath there. Go right.” 

“Yes, sir.” Clint looks over his shoulder at Natasha, and she nods for him to take the lead. They leave the bodies where they are – SHIELD will deal with the mess. Their job is to get out without being detected. Fortunately, they’re both excellent at their job. Clint makes a detour of about two minutes to retrieve the laptop, and when he tells Natasha where he got it, she raises her eyebrows. 

“I can’t wait to hear you explain that to Coulson.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“He told you to get out of a building that was about to explode, and you stayed an extra minute to get this guy’s personal belongings? He’s going to give you the dressing down of your life.” 

“I knew I could get out in time,” Clint argues. “And we need this. The guy knew I was SHIELD. He wasn’t just a smuggler. He was involved in something bigger, I can tell.” 

“Like what?” she sounds sceptical. 

“I don’t know. But I bet his phone and laptop will reveal plenty.” 

She shakes her head and falls silent as they make their way to the corner Coulson’s directing them to. It’s perfectly timed – a black car with tinted windows pulls up and barely slows down as they jump in. They drive out of London to a private air strip where Coulson’s waiting for them. He frowns as soon as he sees the laptop. “Hawkeye, tell me you did not disobey a direct order in getting those.” 

“I didn’t,” Clint says honestly as he walks on after Natasha. “I did get out. I had time. I –” 

“No.” Coulson takes the laptop from him and hands it to Natasha, who wisely retreats to the front of the plane as the door closes and they begin to move. No one tells them to sit down and fasten their seatbelts, and Coulson narrows his eyes and leans close so that only Clint can hear him over the roar of the engines. “If you ever pull something like that again, I will have you put on probation. I don’t care if this turns out to be valuable, or if you were following your instincts – you endanger your life wilfully like that again, and so help me, Barton, I will make sure you’re grounded for months.” 

Clint’s stomach twists unpleasantly, but he sees past Coulson’s tightly controlled anger and sees the edge of worry and fear below it. “I’m sorry,” he says so that only Coulson will hear. 

Coulson’s anger retreats slightly, but he gives Clint a serious look. “Then prove it – don’t ever do that again.” 

“I won’t.” He means it, and he doesn’t miss the knowing smirk Natasha gives him as he goes to sit down opposite her and next to Coulson. He doesn’t care – the twisted feeling in his belly is gone, and they’re all safe again. Everything will be fine now. 

 

 

Eighteen people died in the explosion in the apartment block. Thirty-five people were injured. Two of them later died from complications in hospital. Clint reads the news reports on his laptop on the Helicarrier and feels numb. 

Innocent people have died before as a result of his actions. The maid in Papua New Guinea wasn't the first – there are always civilian casualties in war. Sometimes Clint has had to kill them to protect himself, sometimes they’ve simply died because they were too close to the conflict. On one occasion, his target held his own wife hostage. He killed her before Clint could stop him. He knows this is his life, and he knows that this is something he will always have to do, but sometimes it's hard. Just sometimes, he wishes he'd never enlisted and SHIELD had never found him. Sometimes he wishes he'd never run away with Lori and never known what it felt like to drive a knife into another man's body. But he does know, and whenever he feels himself sinking, he pushes past it and swims up until his position is secure again. Both feet on the ground, bow in hand. His job isn't the cleanest, but someone has to do it. It might as well be him. 

Regina Spektor tells him that _everyone must breathe until their dying breath_ , and he sleeps a little better at night. 

Almost three weeks after returning from the mission, he’s ordered to attend a debriefing concerning the contents of the laptop and phone he stole from his target. It turns out that he was right all along – from what the techies and hackers have been able to salvage, the man was an agent of AIM, and suddenly Clint’s being congratulated on his call because this is the first solid lead they’ve had on AIM for almost ten years. It’s kind of depressing that their best lead is a name that might not be real and the shaky evidence Clint’s findings reveals, but it’s definitely better than nothing. 

In fact, Clint soon understands, they can trace this. And with Natasha’s area of expertise elsewhere and other agents at their clearance either on other missions or out of commission, he’s the most qualified to take on the project. Coulson explains it to him slowly after the debrief, just the two of them in his office. This is going to be a huge undertaking, probably long-term and slow. He’ll be mostly on his own, without the backup of a consistent handler. He’ll be removed from SHIELD’s immediate influence and protection. He’ll be essentially cut off and removed from their system. He’ll have to rely completely on himself and his own judgement. It’s going to be the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

Clint thinks about the number of people killed by the explosion the man set off because he was there and agrees to do it. Coulson makes him think about it for a week before he lets him sign himself into the deal, but he has to let him sign in the end. 

Before he leaves, he gets permission to see Barney. They meet in a bar in civilian clothes, and Clint buys him a drink. They only leave when the bar closes, alcohol buzzing in his blood and a warm feeling thrumming under his skin. They hug before they part ways, and they tell each other to take care. Clint watches Barney hail a cab and pulls his mp3 player out while he waits for another to show up. He listens to Joni Mitchell and tries to fix the night in his mind forever. 

Natasha hugs him on his last night. She won’t see him off in the morning – she doesn’t like goodbyes. They know it will be months at least before they see each other again. Coulson’s there when Clint arrives on the bridge for his final briefing with Fury. He stands unobtrusively in the background while Fury goes over the emergency protocols one more time, and hands Clint the name and number of the person to contact when he gets on the ground. He already has a bank account set up to deal with his day to day expenses. He shakes Fury’s hand, and Coulson walks by his side as he leaves. 

They’re on the water at the moment, and the sun has only just risen, so the light outside is pale, the breeze barely there. It’s a beautiful morning. “Gonna miss me, Phil?” he quips as they step outside. 

“I’ll be getting too much paperwork concerning this project to miss you,” Coulson replies dryly, but he puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder to stop him before he walks over to the waiting plane. “I’d appreciate it if you made a concentrated effort to return in one piece.” 

“Concerned for my wellbeing?” Clint grins. 

“Saves on medical bills,” Coulson shrugs, and squeezes his shoulder slightly before letting go and stepping away. “I’ll be keeping tabs on you. Don’t get in over your head.” 

“I’ll miss you too,” Clint hefts his bag higher on his shoulder and smiles. “See you soon.” 

“Stay safe.” 

“Stay busy.” 

Clint looks over his shoulder before he boards the plane. Coulson’s standing still with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting for him to leave. The early sun casts him in shadow, and Clint takes that image with him as the door closes and he straps himself in. He won’t be back for a long time. He hopes it’s worth it. 

 

 

Clint spends the next two years feeling out Advanced Idea Mechanics. The stress is more intense than anything else he has ever known – he’s on a constant knife edge, dancing one step ahead of his pursuers and playing the game as deftly as he can. He has to cover his trail at all times, think his actions out three times over before he actually acts on them, keep moving ahead. He forges connections and learns more than he ever wanted to know about the shadowy world that lies below the surface. It’s awful, and he nearly gets killed more times than he cares to count, but he keeps pushing himself forward, leaping just beyond the jaws of his enemies. 

AIM is a sprawling empire of scientists and politicians, some interested in national domination, most interested in furthering their personal goals. The money involved is beyond comprehension, and funded by a myriad of different operations. Some are legal. Most are not. There’s a huge market for slaves, a bigger one for narcotics, and the arms market doesn’t bear thinking about. But Clint has to know about it, so he watches everything from behind a steely mask and reports back to SHIELD through various paths. It’s always too risky to meet anyone in person, and phones and emails are out of the question where AIM is concerned – the top dogs employ hackers and technicians specifically to root out potential threats like Clint. He has to use old-fashioned ways, leaving notes in code for the right people to hide in places that are sometimes right out in the open and sometimes hidden where no one would think to look. On one memorable occasion, he has to buy a war documentary on DVD, remove the disc and replace it with one of his own, and replace it in the shop. He scratches a line diagonally across the cover and puts it at the back of a pile of kid cartoons. He gets a confirmation of the transaction in the form of a tick in green pen drawn in under the window of the shop. Every time he has to make a report, he gets a little edgier – he’s putting his position on the line every time he contacts SHIELD. 

It takes him months to establish contacts solid enough to partially rely on. He’s on the job for almost a year by the time he cracks the first layer of AIM’s shell. He plants recording devices in the places they use for their meetings, kills men and poses as them to get closer. On one occasion, he delivers a plump foreign woman dressed up in expensive clothes to the door of one of the men on AIM’s payroll. He scouted out the hotel beforehand, and he hides in the room next door and slides his microphone through the tiny hole he drilled in the wall. He listens to the man rape her, listens to him smack her around, picks up nothing valuable, and goes back to his shitty motel room and tries not to think about the fate of the poor woman he handed over. Sometimes he hates his job. More often he hates himself for going along with it.

This mission is all about testing his limits. With no handler, he has to decide what he can and can’t do, what he can manage and when he needs to quit while he’s ahead. A year in, and he hits a block he can’t evade – all of his findings lead to the same splinter group, but he can’t get anywhere near them. They change their meeting places constantly, none of them have permanent residences, and they all move with the cautious slowness of people who know they’re in a high-risk business. Clint finds himself thinking about the advice Natasha had given to him before he left, and the techniques she showed him. 

Natasha’s speciality is open infiltration – allowing the enemy to catch her and interrogate her in order to get the information she needs. She’s the best anyone’s ever seen, and Clint knows that it’s because she’s had a lifetime of practise. Natasha is small and beautiful, and when she wants, she can look weak. She can look fragile. And she can look like she’s trying to hide that as well, which is one hell of a trick. Nine times out of ten, it’s men who roll the operations, and Natasha slips in and looks like she’ll be an easy nut to crack. She showed Clint how it works – a give and take game. Give away just enough information to make them keep going and take the pain they dish out in return. Leave everything open so that they end up filling in the blanks. It’s all a trick. Every move calculated to make them reveal more. 

The problem is, Natasha’s an expert at that. Clint most certainly isn’t. And he doesn’t have her advantages either. He won’t be able to play the sex card reliably, for one thing, and he’s a bulky, hard-faced man, not a slim, delicate woman. But he’s getting desperate, and he can’t see any other way to get the information he needs to continue in his investigations. 

Tied to metal pipes, his arms spread out across one at his shoulder height like Christ on a cross, he’s never had to act so little in an interrogation. His fear is real, and the pain is _definitely_ real. He’s been electrically shocked, he’s bleeding from various cuts, one of his eyes is swollen shut, and when a bulky man slams a fist into his stomach for the nth time, he doubles over as much as he can and groans. When the guy punches him in the side of the head, he pretends to pass out, and hopes that the bursts of colour behind his eyes will fade quickly. He aches all over, and he’s struggling not to push himself up on his feet – hanging against the chain they’ve put around his waist to the pipes behind him hurts like hell. He really hopes it will be worth it, and he won’t die down here, a failed agent on a failed mission. 

“Weak,” the punching guy slaps his face and grunts dismissively. 

“Tank’s standards are getting lower,” one of the others snorts, and Clint logs that away for later. 

“He’s getting desperate, that’s why,” this voice is from the one in charge – an English man with blonde hair and narrow eyes. “He knows he didn’t get the contract because he’s not as good as us.” He sighs and his shoes tap against the damp stone floor. “Wake him up.” 

“Sir.” The puncher goes away, and Clint has to force himself not to tense in anticipation of a drenching, because he can hear the bucket of water in the man’s hands the moment he picks it up. It’s _freezing_ , and he jerks and gasps and shakes against his restraints as the men chuckle. 

“So,” the blonde man paces the small space and runs a hand through his yellow hair, “let’s continue where we left off, shall we? Who do you work for?” 

“No one,” Clint shakes his head and cries out when the puncher slams his boot down on his bare foot. He’s pretty sure he hears one of his toes break. He can’t risk saying he works for this Tank person in case they were just planting it, so he just concentrates on breathing. “I swear, I was just looking for some money, I didn’t know it belonged to anyone important –” ‘it’ is a car he made sure he was caught trying to steal a laptop from. Dangerous, but it worked. 

“Mr Vickers,” the name on the cards in his wallet this month, “you are a liar. Do you know what happens to liars?” The blonde man takes a block of something out of his pocket and hands it to one of his henchmen, who grins and hands it to the puncher. Clint’s eyes widen as the guy unwraps the paper to reveal a small block of cream-coloured soap. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. 

“Liars get their mouths washed out,” the blonde man waves a hand, and the puncher beckons one of the other men forward to hold Clint’s head still and help pry his mouth open. Clint can’t think of anything worse he’s had in his mouth, and that includes dirt, sand, and blood. He gags and heaves uncontrollably and for a moment thinks of what Coulson would have said about his decision to do this. 

He certainly wouldn’t have allowed him to do it without a back-up team on standby. 

Clint spits suds at the man with the blonde hair, knowing exactly what kind of reaction it will get. He passes out for real at the end of the beating, and when he comes to he slumps and makes a show of trying not to cry. That part, at least, is all acting. 

“Constanos,” he whispers when they ask him who he works for again. “Constanos.” 

There’s a ripple of surprise – he’s named someone he knows is pretty low down on the food chain. “Constanos thought he could take me on?” the blonde man sneers. “ _Constanos_ thought he could take on Ricky Sax and come out on top? Jesus Christ, the _nerve_ of some people. What kind of bum does he think I am? Who does he think collaborated with Lao on the MODOC plan? Who the hell does he think has the Scientist Supreme on _speed dial_? What an arrogant asshat. What did he send you for?” 

“To steal information,” Clint whispers, repeating everything the idiot just gave away in his head to make sure he remembers it. Lao, MODOC plan, Scientist Supreme. He coughs hoarsely. “I…I have a message,” he adds in a raspy voice. 

“Oh yeah?” The blonde man laughs. “Do tell.” 

“Only for you.” 

“Big shock,” the man grins. “I don’t think so. Jack, again.” 

Puncher starts forward, and Clint twists and cries, “Wait! The message – it’s about the dockside deal.” 

He made that up, but the blonde man frowns and holds up his hand. Puncher pauses, and Clint breaths out. “What dockside deal?” he asks suspiciously. 

Yeah, what dockside deal, Clint asks himself sarcastically. Great. That’ll teach him to improvise on the fly. “Only for you,” he whispers, hamming up the croak in his voice. “Traitors everywhere.” He thinks he sounds over-dramatic and trite, but it seems to strike a chord, because blondie shuffles forward a step. 

“Exactly where is everywhere?” he asks menacingly. 

“Message,” Clint says, like a stuck CD, and coughs weakly. The blonde man steps closer, closer, and finally close enough. 

“Hey,” the man slaps his face, hard, and Clint lets his weight hang on the chain around his waist, slips his feet under him to press up against the wall, and pushes his body forward as hard as he can. The pipe the chain is wrapped around, rusty and ancient, breaks and falls to the floor with a clang, dark sludge oozing from the hole. Clint uses his momentum to swing his legs out and wrap them around the blonde man’s chest. He drags him close, headbutts him, and gets a leg behind his knees to buckle them and topple him to the floor – a move Natasha had showed him. He kicks puncher in the chest as he runs forward, forcing him back, and kicks blondie in the face hard enough to stun him and keep him down, and Clint rests a heel on his throat to keep him still while he hooks a toe around the gun blondie was keeping in his pocket and pulls it out. One of the other men pulls out a knife, and Clint snorts as he checks the gun has the safety on before flicking it through the air. His aim is perfect, and his right hand closes around it without a snag. 

“Nobody move,” he says, hoarse voice dropped. He flicks the safety off and aims the gun at blondie, who stills and stares up at it in horror, the sludge from the broken pipe ruining his nice suit. 

From there, it goes a lot better for him. 

He doesn’t celebrate his thirty-third or thirty-fourth birthdays. He doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, and Christmas Eve 2009 finds him in a gunfight with five guards who detected his presence inside the perimeter of the compound he’s trying to infiltrate. He can’t use his bow – that’s Hawkeye’s calling card, and it would be monumentally stupid to let AIM know that SHIELD was getting close. 

Because he is getting close. He leaves the compound – killing all the guards would leave far too bloody a trail – but he gets in a month later and copies enough data to make the first setback more than worthwhile. He hides his trail as best as he can, but he’s far from a technical genius, and he’s just dumped his car and left town when he hears about masked men killing the occupant of his room in the motel he just left. 

He adds another body to the tally in his mind (approximate, inaccurate, but still slightly guilt-inducing if he lets himself think about it too much) and moves on. 

He doesn’t get far. 

His break-in at the compound obviously left more of a trail than he’d expected, and Clint doesn’t get more than a minute’s warning when they come for him. He’s in a new motel room, a new car outside, and he hears the motel owner’s dog bark. It does that whenever it smells new people. There’s no reason to believe it’s anything but someone looking for a room, but Clint hasn’t lived this long by assuming he’s safe. 

He turns out the lights, glances out of the window, and sees a black shape move in the bushes opposite. The fear runs through him like cold water and he drops to the floor as a bullet flies through the air where his head had just been, the cheap glass of the window shattering over him. He scrambles to the bed and flips it over, shoving it across the door and covering half of the window. More bullets fly overhead and he grabs his bag and pulls it across his back as his fingers scramble for the gun that fell to the floor when he flipped the bed. He runs into the bathroom and rips the shower curtain down. He rips off the toilet seat, wraps it up, and then ducks back into the main bedroom and throws it in front of the window. As they shoot at it, he uses the noise as cover to smash the tiny bathroom window. It opens into the courtyard at the back where the owner lives, and he drops the bag on the other side and shoves himself through the gap by what seems like strength of will alone. He hears them break down the door, and he clears the window in the time it takes them to run into the bathroom. 

He’s got cuts running the length of his body from the broken glass, but he drops to the concrete floor like a sack of flour, grabs his bag, and sprints along the wall to the gate before they can angle their guns out of the window at him. He takes the gate at a running jump and gets over it just before they start shooting at him. He’s back round the front now, and there are three men outside his room. They see each other at the same time, and Clint kills one of them and gets another in the side as he runs for the cover of the cars. He doesn’t realise they shot him in the arm until he’s crouched behind a silver Chevy. Luckily, he can shoot just as well with his left hand, so he switches the gun over and waits until the idiots shoot out the windows before he peeks over the top and shoots back. They’ve got no chance at this range. He kills the others who come out in the same way, and pauses to catch his breath once they’re all dead. 

He can’t go over and check without putting himself in danger, but he can’t stay where he is. He knows for sure that the other people in the motel will be calling the cops if they haven’t already. This is high-profile. There are too many dead bodies this time. This is a trail he can’t cover up. He sighs and pulls his phone out to dial the number he’s had memorised since the beginning. 

Coulson picks up on the second ring. “Coulson.” 

“Phil, I need extracting.” 

“Hawkeye?” 

“You know anyone else who calls you Phil?” 

“Where are you?” 

Clint gives him the location. “I need to move, man, I’m in the open here, the feds are en route.” 

“Then run. Call me back as soon as you’re safe.” Coulson trusts his ability to evade the police, and Clint allows a warmth to settle in his stomach at the familiar sound of Coulson’s voice. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He runs. He calls one of his contacts in the nearest town and gets her to drive out as fast as she can to pick him up. They don’t get stopped by anyone on the way back in, and Clint gives the girl a crisp fifty dollar note. She grins and drops him by a bar. He goes in, trying to look as though he isn’t shitting bricks, because the men sent to kill him would have been ordered to report back as soon as they finished the job, but now they’ll never speak again, and whoever sent them will know that Clint’s still breathing. He keeps a calm face on, buys a drink, and calls Coulson, adding in the part about his injury this time. He tries to ignore the part of him that’s secretly overjoyed that this mission is almost certainly over, at least for the time being. He wants to go back to the Helicarrier. He wants to see Natasha and Coulson. He wants to have another drink with Barney. He wants to feel safe again, and stop sleeping so lightly that the creak of floorboards wakes him up. 

Coulson tells him to wait, and he does. He waits for two hours, buying another drink and a bag of chips to occupy himself. He’s chosen a table that can’t be seen immediately from the front door, close to the toilets. He keeps his gun close at hand until Coulson calls and tells him to go outside. The door just swings shut behind him as a car pulls up with the window rolled down. He recognises the agent behind the wheel – Fielding, the man who drove the car when he first recruited Natasha. 

“Good to see you,” he says as he slides into the backseat, where a woman immediately gets to work on his bloodied arm. 

“You too,” Fielding meets his eyes in the rear-view mirror and smiles. “Ready to go home?” 

Clint thinks of the Helicarrier, the impregnable fortress in the sky, and sighs, sinking into the seat. “You have no idea.” The first thing he’s going to do as soon as his arm is better is spend a whole day with his bow, he resolves. He’s missed shooting like a physical ache, and after so long without it, he’s really going to need the practise.


	6. Load Up On Guns, Bring Your Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint comes back to the Helicarrier, Tony Stark gets himself kidnapped in Afghanistan, SHIELD and Fury have a Big Week, and shit goes down in Budapest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Smells Like Teen Spirit](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTWKbfoikeg) by Nirvana.

Coulson’s there when he steps off the jet and onto the landing strip. The Helicarrier’s on the water again and there’s a mist of salty spray in the air as Clint walks across the deck and grins when he sees Coulson smile. He flings his good arm around him without any warning, and laughs when Coulson actually pats his back, careful not to jolt the arm that’s in a sling. 

“I didn’t know you missed me that much,” Coulson says when he pulls away, a wry smirk in place. Clint grins. 

“What can I say? I’ve got a soft spot for you, Phil.” 

“Get inside, Barton,” Coulson orders, but he’s smiling. “Director Fury wants to see you immediately on the bridge.” 

“Of course he does,” Clint sighs. “Where’s Nat?” He already knows – there’s only one reason why she wouldn’t have turned up to welcome him back. 

“On a mission,” Coulson confirms. “She’ll be back by the end of the week. You can surprise her.” 

“I’d like that,” Clint smiles and runs his fingertips along the cool metal wall as they go inside. “It is _good_ to be back.” 

When Natasha does get back, he waits on the deck for her the way Coulson had waited for him, and when she sees him she walks over as fast as she can without actually running, because Natasha’s all about dignity and control. He thinks she’s about to hug him a split second before he realises what she’s actually going to do, and he doesn’t have time to dodge or block the slap she delivers to his face with punishing force. 

“Ow!” he shouts, staring at her and clutching his cheek like it’ll lessen the sting. “What the hell? What was that for?” 

“I hate surprises,” she says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “You should’ve called me on the plane.” 

“ _Damn!_ ” he says, looking down at her and turning away slightly, ready to deflect another blow if it comes. “I’ll warn you next time, jeez.” 

“You do that,” she says, and then she hugs him, smiling into his shoulder and wrapping her arms tight around his middle. It’s late, so they go straight to his new room (his old one has been given to someone else because he’s been away for so long) and catch up. They talk for hours – Clint tells her all about the painful process of infiltrating AIM from the ground up, she tells him about the difference between the level five and level four security clearance and really carving a space for herself in SHIELD. He’s impressed and proud, and for a while they just sit on his bed and breathe. He sighs and slides down the wall to lie down, and after a moment she lays half on top of him, her spine against the side of his chest. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says quietly, and he lifts his good hand to run through her hair. 

“Ditto.” 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but I’m glad you recruited me.” 

Clint smiles and massages her scalp gently with his fingertips. “I’m glad you came.” 

She pauses for a long moment before speaking again. “Why did you offer? You didn’t do it to get into my pants.” 

Clint laughs and drags his fingers through her hair from root to tip, thinking for a moment. “I wasn’t sure at the time, really," he says slowly, "I read up on you before I left, and I watched you while I was there, and you had…I don’t know, potential? Something different, at least. You were better than anyone else I’d ever seen. Killing you would’ve been such a _waste_ , I guess. I don’t know how else to put it, really.” 

“A waste of what?” she asks after a moment. “Of my skills?” 

Clint frowns. “No. I don’t know, a waste of everything? Like killing the last tiger in the world for no reason.” 

“You had a reason. I was interfering with the Zodiac operation.” 

Clint shrugs, awkwardly with her weight on top of him. “Reason wasn’t good enough.” 

She’s silent for a long minute, and he just keeps running his hand through her hair. She turns suddenly on top of him and presses her lips to his. “Thank you,” she says quietly, and pulls away. “See you tomorrow?” 

“You’ll knock me on my ass,” he recovers and grins, sitting up as she gets off the bed and goes to the door. “I haven’t been training properly for…well, the whole mission.” 

The smile that spreads across Natasha’s face can only be described as _evil_ , and he groans. “I’ll go easy on you, agent,” she smirks. 

“You’re such a liar!” he snorts. “And besides, your idea of easy does not equate with my idea of easy.” 

“That’s because you’re a soft baby,” she grins, and he pulls a face at her. She leaves on a laugh and closes the door firmly behind her, and he touches his fingers to his lips and wonders what they’re doing. 

Natasha told him not to overthink anything after they kissed for the first time, and he tries not to, he really does, but it’s difficult. Thinking situations through is something he just _does_ , the same way he scrutinises people to understand what makes them tick. It’s part of what makes him such an excellent assassin and marksman. He’s a good judge of personality – that’s even in his file. But Natasha’s someone he’s never been able to get a proper hold on, and that makes this part of their relationship an unsteady, uncertain thing in his mind. He trusts her with his life, and he’s told her more about himself than anyone except Coulson, but he doesn’t know what they’re doing when they lie on his bed together and hold each other like lovers. 

They don’t take their clothes off. They don’t leave marks. They’re gentle with each other, the way they’re never gentle with anyone else. She kisses him like she’s drinking from a well, savouring every moment and letting him wash over her. He kisses her like she’s the only thing in his world. He spreads his hands over her hips and back (never breasts, never anything below her waist) and learns what the curve of her spine feels like under his palm. 

He doesn’t know what any of that means. 

He drops his head into his hands and pushes his fingers through his hair. He knows he won’t talk to her about it. And this is one of the only things he can’t talk to Coulson about. He sighs and gets to his feet to change out of his uniform. He’s tired, and the kicking Natasha’s going to give him tomorrow will feel even worse if he doesn’t get any sleep. 

 

 

For some reason, the New Year party becomes a huge occasion. Clint isn’t sure why, but after his tenth drink he doesn’t really care, and he destroys everyone else when they play beer pong. He ends up banished from the table, and he finds Coulson leaning against the wall with a glass in his hand and an amused smile on his face. 

“What’re you so smug about?” Clint asks, stumbling against the wall. Coulson gives him a once-over and raises an eyebrow. Clint straightens and tries to pretend that he didn’t just fall against the wall because he would’ve fallen on his face otherwise. 

“I’m not smug,” Coulson says, looking back at the space they’ve cleared in the common room for dancing. “I’m just wondering how many knives Agent Romanoff has concealed on her person.” 

Clint leans forward and narrows his eyes. Natasha’s swaying on the edge of the floor with a man he recognises from the bridge. “At least five,” he decides finally. 

“I can count seven.” Coulson smiles at him, and Clint grins back. 

“You’re awesome. Did you know that?” 

“I’ve been notified, yes.” 

“Who notified you?” 

“Oh, a number of people. Director Fury has commented on occasion that I’m practically invaluable.” 

“Practically?” 

Coulson shrugs. “No one’s completely invaluable.” 

Clint narrows his eyes. “You are. You are very invallible. Invaluable. I’d watch out, Phil. Fury has laser vision. He could kill you.” 

Coulson looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Director Fury could kill anyone, I’m sure. I don’t plan to make it onto his list though, so I think you can stop worrying.” 

“I wasn’t worrying,” Clint hastens to say, “I was just pointing out that your life could be in danger. You can handle yourself, we all know that. It’s just that Fury’s _tricky_. I can’t get a lock on him, y’know? You, him, and Natasha. Only people I can’t get a decent lock on.” 

“What does that mean?” Coulson sounds interested, so Clint comes a little closer so he won’t have to speak so loudly to be heard over the music. He ends up having to put a hand on Coulson’s shoulder to steady himself, but they both pretend not to notice that. 

“Well see, I can read people pretty easily most times. Not that difficult. I can suss out what makes ‘em tick, y’know? What makes ‘em act like they do. ‘M a good judge of character, says so in my file. I’ve seen my file.” 

“You’ve seen part of your file,” Coulson corrects him. Clint pauses to take that in, momentarily scandalised. 

“You mean there’re secret things about me I’m not allowed to see?” 

“You work for a shadowy government-funded organisation,” Coulson says dryly, “what did you expect?” 

Clint considers this. “Good point. Okay, one to you. But anyway, I’m good at reading people, and I can’t read you guys so well. Natasha’s like…got more layers than Shrek. Who has layers like an onion. Because, you know. Ogres. They’re like onions. You seen that movie?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll make you watch it at some point. _My_ point is, Natasha’s got a billion layers. I don’t know if _she_ knows about all of them. Because of all the brain-fiddling they did to her in the Red Room, y’know?” 

“Does ‘classified information’ mean anything to you, Barton?” 

“Yes, sir,” Clint grins and then goes on. “So Natasha’s got all these layers, and Fury’s just…tricky, like I said. He’s running the most covert security operation on the planet, so he’s…I don’t know how to say it. Like, he can operate on loads of different levels and see how everything fits together and manip…manipulate the way it all goes. He’s also old as balls and he doesn’t look like he is, which puts me on edge, I’ll be honest with you.” 

“How do you know he’s older than he looks?” Coulson frowns. 

Clint snorts. “Isn’t everyone on this boat? Nah, it’s the way he works and moves and talks. I can’t explain it. And he’s mentioned things that’re too old for him to have been involved in significantly, but he talks about them like he _was_ involved significantly. Tip-off. And then there’s you, and I just can’t get a lock on you at all. Like,” he pulls back and gestures with his hands, “at _all_.” 

“Is my cool exterior that good?” Coulson smiles slightly, and Clint waves a hand at his face. 

“See, that’s what I’m talking about! You’re so cool all the time. You’re like the ehpee-tome of cool, and –” 

“Epitome.” 

Clint pauses and sways slightly. They both pretend not to notice. “What?” 

“Isn’t that what you were trying to say? Epitome?” 

Clint narrows his eyes. “Ee, pee, aye, tee, oh, em, ee?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“How’d you pronounce it?” 

“Epitome.” 

Clint mouths it to himself slowly. _Eh-pi-toh-me_. “Shit. That sucks.” 

“Problem?” 

“Well, I knew what it meant, but I’ve only ever seen it written down before. Jeez, I hope I’ve never done that in front of anyone else.” He shakes his head and comes to lean heavily against the wall next to Coulson again. “That’d be awkward.” 

“One minute to midnight!” someone shrieks, and Clint peers out across the room. 

“Shit. I wonder if I’m supposed to kiss Natasha.” 

Coulson looks at him. “Supposed to?” 

Clint waves a hand and keeps staring. “We have this thing we do where we kiss, but it isn’t exactly romantic, but it’s not normal friendship either, and I have no idea what it is, but I kinda like it and Natasha told me not to overthink it, so I try not to.” 

Coulson seems to consider this, and then starts looking for Natasha as well through the crowd that is pairing off in preparation for the countdown. He finds her much faster than Clint. “There,” he says, pointing. 

Clint narrows his eyes and nods. “Nice. Ever considered going back into fieldwork?” 

“Too messy.” 

Clint grins. “You would say that. Leave all the dirty work to us grunts, huh?” 

“I think she’s trying to catch your eye,” Coulson nods to Natasha. Clint glances over and gives her a quizzical look, asking without words if she wants him to come over. She jerks her head at the guy she’s dancing with, who’s got a hand on her waist and a shy smile on his lips, and she smirks and shakes her head. Clint shrugs and salutes. 

“She’s snagged someone already.” 

“Twenty seconds!” someone yells. 

“You staying here?” Clint looks at Coulson, who lifts his glass. 

“I don’t plan on going anywhere else.” 

“Good.” Clint settles comfortably against the wall and smiles. “I’ll keep you company then.” 

“I’m not kissing you, Barton.” 

“You wound me, sir.” 

People start counting down from ten, and as midnight strikes, Clint presses a button in his pocket that makes several devices he cobbled together earlier explode and shoot confetti and party popper streamers into the air. He laughs, and Coulson shakes his head with a small smile, and they lean against the wall and watch the other people kiss. 

 

 

The good times end in exactly two weeks. 

Clint’s just out of a briefing for a mission that will involve tying up some of his loose ends from the AIM operation when his phone rings. “Yo,” he says, flipping it open. 

“Barton, bridge, now,” says Coulson sharply, and hangs up before Clint can reply. He slides the phone back in his pocket and runs, because this is clearly an emergency. Natasha appears as he’s going down the second flight of stairs, and they meet other agents on the way, all hurrying as much as they are. 

Fury’s standing on his little podium, a very grim expression on his face. He motions for everyone to stand around the large table. Coulson’s in one of the trenches between the raised walkways, leaning over the shoulder of one of the surveillance guys. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fury says, drawing Clint’s attention back to him. “We are in a situation. This morning Tony Stark was in Afghanistan doing a weapon demonstration. He is, as of this moment, missing in action.” There’s a stir among the assembled agents and personnel, and Clint glances at Natasha, who gives nothing away in her face. “Mr Stark’s convoy was attacked, and his body has not been discovered in the wreckage. Nobody has any idea where he is, or who took him. I need every available agent working on this right now. You will be assigned handlers, and briefed, and I want as many people on the ground working this job as possible. If you have contacts, use them. I don’t care if they’re legit or not. If they could yield any information at all, you have my permission to utilise any shady sources at your disposal. Stark needs to be found, and he needs to be found now. Dismissed.” He turns away and beckons Coulson over. 

Agent Hill walks up to the table and makes a sharp gesture. “Form a line,” she barks, “I’ll assign you to your handlers.” 

She starts calling out names, and Clint leans in close to Natasha to murmur in her ear, “Lot of fuss, huh?” 

“You ever look at the name on the guns you fire?” she whispers back. “Stark Industries makes the most advanced weapons in the world, and they don’t come from a team of engineers – they come from Tony Stark’s brain. Without him, the company withers and the weapons with it. Fury uses a lot of Stark tech.” 

“Who do you think took him?” 

“Afghanistan?” she shoots him a flat look. “Who do you think?” 

He nods and stands to his attention as his name is called. He’s assigned to Sitwell’s group, and he looks around at the others as he goes over. Everyone has their game-faces on, blank and expressionless, professional to the death. There have been rumours for a while about the Ten Rings establishing advanced, organised cells in Afghanistan, and it’s more than likely that this is their work. Clint doesn’t fancy Stark’s chances of getting out alive. The odds are good that he’s dead already. Clint takes the folder that Sitwell hands him and shuts everything else out as he starts to learn about Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries and genius of the age, currently lost in a desert controlled by one of the most dangerous terrorist groups on SHIELD’s radar. 

 

 

“I am so over this guy,” Clint grumbles to Natasha, three months after Stark’s disappearance. She grunts in agreement and hands him a coffee from the machine in the hallway. They’re both in the California base, collaborating with other specialists there. Neither of them have been heavily involved in the Ten Rings operations in the past (Clint’s big-picture jobs have been on the Zodiac Cartel and AIM, Natasha’s focus has been turned to HYDRA), so they’re working in the offices for the time being, relaying sensitive information and crunching data. Even though this isn’t their job usually, they’re among the only ones qualified to handle the information being passed to them. 

“He’s dead for sure by now,” Clint continues, taking a sip of his coffee and pulling a face – the machine’s so old it only serves the drinks lukewarm now. “I mean, he was dead for sure the moment he was taken, but the way his people are stringing this out is just ridiculous.” 

“They’re certainly more determined than anyone else,” Natasha agrees, eyes narrowed on her computer screen. Clint scowls at his own and rubs his forehead. 

“You hear that guy Rhodes has pulled in another favour and got himself a couple of choppers to patrol? He’s going behind his superior’s backs to negotiate for the airspace to fly the damn things. What the hell is with that? And that damn Potts woman is backing him up to the last gasp.” 

“She’s going behind Stane to do it as well,” Natasha says quietly. Clint frowns. 

“Stane?” 

“Obadiah Stane? Takes control of Stark Industries in Stark’s absence? Were you awake in any of those briefings?” 

“Briefings that don’t come attached with a kill order send me to sleep, you know that.” 

“Stark doesn’t have many friends, but he seems to have made a lasting impression on those two at least.” 

“Would you give up on me if I vanished into Ten Rings territory?” Clint asks, leaning back in his chair to smile at her. She looks away from her screen and thinks for a moment. 

“I think I’d assume you were dead,” she says thoughtfully, “but I’d rather have the confirmation of a body. If they didn’t give one up, I’d assume you were alive.” 

“You’re saying you think Stark’s alive?” 

“There are several key differences between you and Tony Stark,” Natasha smirks. 

“I’m not the kind of rich that lets me turn up late to a meeting with the president,” Clint agrees. They all know far too much about Stark’s life now. Clint doesn’t know whether he admires the man’s cocky assurance and bold disdain of everything that doesn’t hold his interest, or dislikes him for being such an arrogant douchebag. 

“You’re also an agent of SHIELD,” Natasha says, looking forward again, but not leaning forward to read whatever’s on her screen. She frowns into the middle distance instead. “And a soldier before that. You know what it’s like to be in a situation out of your control where you know you might not survive. You know what it feels like to be attacked, and you know how to attack back. You’ve killed people. Stark’s may have a lot of military connections, but he’s a businessman, not a soldier. You know how well businessmen like Stark hold up under life-threatening pressure like that?” 

“Not well?” 

“Most of the ones I’ve seen have turned into bawling wrecks who can’t so much as string a sentence together.” She only just manages to keep the disdain from her voice. “Stark’s lived a sheltered life. Even if he is alive, he’ll be a broken man if he’s ever fished out of that desert. The only reason so many people care at all is because he’s filthy rich and produces the best weapons in the world.”

“And his PA and Rhodes care why?” 

“Maybe they’ve both slept with him,” Natasha shrugs. Clint makes a considering face. After reading about Stark’s _numerous_ conquests, it’s not that far-fetched a conclusion to draw. 

“Either way,” Clint goes back to squinting at his screen, “I’ll just be glad when someone finds his body. The paperwork this is generating makes me feel sorry for Coulson.” 

“Good to know you care,” Coulson’s voice comes from behind him, and Clint doesn’t have time to turn around when Coulson leans over him and does something to make everything on the screen a little bigger. It’s much easier to read, and Clint sighs when Coulson straightens up. 

“You are the best person I have ever known. And I know I don’t tell you that enough, but it’s so true.” 

Coulson smiles and nods at Natasha when she turns around as well. “Anything new?” 

“Rhodes has snagged himself a couple of choppers,” Clint tells him, “and he keeps trying to negotiate for more airspace to patrol the area where Stark might be.” 

Coulson sighs and shakes his head. Natasha tilts her head. “Professional opinion, sir?” 

“We’re wasting our time,” Coulson says simply. “There isn’t a chance in hell that Stark is still alive. Our focus now is on why the Ten Rings feels the need to keep his body, and what they were planning with this kidnap in the first place.” 

“I thought we all agreed they wanted Stark to build shit for them,” Clint glances at Natasha, who shrugs one-shouldered. 

“Nothing’s come out of the desert yet,” Coulson shrugs, “and to be honest, I don’t think a civilian like Stark would survive this long in a hostage situation with the Ten Rings. Barton, email me a report of Rhodes’ latest moves. Natasha, go through the files from section A, subdivision 4G again. Let me know if anything new turns up.” 

They both murmur, “Yes, sir,” and get back to work, drinking bitter coffee and straining their eyes at computer screens. They both know there isn’t a single person in SHIELD who still believes Tony Stark is still breathing. 

 

 

“He’s alive!” 

Clint jerks awake and makes an angry sound as his legs get caught in the duvet. “What the –” 

“It’s Tony Stark! They found him! Come on – we’ve got to get on this!” Clint recognises Jamie Low just as he leaves his room, the door still open. 

“What the fuck?” Clint snarls, stumbling to his feet and stepping out into the corridor. Jamie’s making his way down the line, waking everyone up. “Jamie! What the hell?” 

“Tony Stark’s alive,” Jamie turns to him, too excited for this time of night. Clint leans back into his room to check the time on his alarm clock – it’s just gone five am. 

“Were you on the night shift?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. 

“Yeah. Stark’s alive – get dressed, Fury’s issued a general alert.” 

Clint growls and moves past Jamie to Natasha’s room. He knocks before trying the handle. It’s locked, of course. “Nat? Natasha, wake up!” 

There’s a noise, and then the lock clicks and Natasha opens the door a crack, squinting up into Clint’s face. He pretends not to notice the knife in her hand. “This had better be good,” she hisses. 

“Tony Stark’s alive,” he tells her bluntly. “Fury’s got us all up for some reason.” 

“He’s alive,” she says in a flat voice. “Confirmed?” 

Clint looks back up the hall. “Jamie?” 

Jamie looks around and just avoids a shoe thrown at his head from the room he’s just opened the door to. “Yeah?” 

“This is confirmed?” 

He grins and ducks as the first shoe’s twin comes flying out to join it. “Oh yeah. Come on – we’re needed in the main hall in five minutes.” 

Natasha curses in Russian and closes her door. Clint drags his hands through his hair and goes back to his room to get dressed. It’s only as he pulls a shirt on that it really sinks in – Stark’s actually alive. He’s suddenly very glad he didn’t join in on the betting pool that had formed around a week after he was first captured. He definitely wouldn’t have put money on anything more than a corpse coming out of the desert. 

It turns out that Tony Stark came out as much, much more than a corpse. Clint stands with the other agents in the California base, Natasha at his side, and listens to Fury over the speaker. According to Fury’s sources, a massive explosion was sighted in the Hisar mountain range, and Rhodes was on the situation before anyone else. They located Stark, several miles away from the site of the explosion, wandering alone in the desert with nothing but the clothes on his back. 

“What we know from that point on is nothing but speculation,” Fury’s voice was hard over the line, “your handlers will keep you up to date on what you all need to be doing, but my general order is to squeeze any contacts you have left to find out what exactly went down today. I want to know how the hell an unarmed civilian under guard by the Ten Rings managed to escape and blow up everyone who was anywhere near him in the process. Get to it, ladies and gentlemen!” 

Clint exchanges a look with Natasha, who shrugs and goes off to join her handler. Clint sighs and searches for Sitwell in the crowd. 

When Stark makes the announcement that he’s shutting down the weapons division of Stark Industries in the press conference he calls as soon as he gets back on American soil, Clint nudges Natasha. “Maybe not broken,” he says quietly, “but definitely cracked.” 

 

 

Clint’s in Malibu a few months later, tying up the last of the loose ends from his AIM operations, when there’s a massive explosion that wipes out the power in most of the city. Clint pulls over and calls Coulson _immediately_ , because he knows Coulson’s in Malibu on a job – they took the same plane out and Clint laughed when Coulson bitched about how Stark kept avoiding his attempts to debrief him. When Coulson doesn’t pick up, Clint turns off the engine and has to pause for a moment to compose himself. 

“Chill out, Clint,” he mutters, dialling Natasha’s number instead, “just because he isn’t answering his phone doesn’t mean he’s in trouble. Just because he’s always picked up before doesn’t mean he’s hurt. Okay. Calm down. Natasha?” 

“What?” she sounds out of breath, and he frowns. 

“Training?” 

“I’m in the gym, yeah. What? Aren’t you meant to be in Malibu?” 

“I am. Turn on the news – there was just a massive explosion. Natasha, Coulson isn’t picking up.” 

“How many times did you try calling him?” 

“…once.” 

“Try again. If he doesn’t pick up, call me back.” 

“Okay,” he hangs up and tries Coulson again. Still nothing. He swallows and calls Natasha back. “No answer.” 

“The explosion was on Stark Industries campus,” Natasha informs him, and he can hear other people around her, talking excitedly. “Looks like the arc reactor malfunctioned or overloaded or something.” 

“The what?” 

“It’s a clean energy source. Not in wide-spread effect because it isn’t cost effective. And now it’s up in flames. There was also an incident on the freeway nearby…some sort of giant robot battle?” she sounds puzzled, and Clint raises his eyebrows. 

“Did someone call Optimus Prime yet? If this is a Decepticon attack, I don’t think we’re ready for it.” 

“Ha ha,” she says distractedly. “Peters!” she calls someone over and Clint hangs up and tries Coulson again. There’s still no answer, and he tries not to think of the explosion. Natasha calls him and barks down the line, “Coulson was at the campus.” 

Clint doesn’t wait to hear her repeat it. He guns the engine and starts breaking traffic laws. “Fury?” 

“Notified. Clean-up crew’s already on their way, press jockeys in place trying to control the damage. Apparently Stark himself is involved.” 

“Surprise, surprise,” Clint growls and cuts someone off as he screams round a corner and slams his foot down. “What the hell was Coulson doing there?” 

“No idea, but he wasn’t alone. Team of five behind him, so he’s not without backup.” 

“He isn’t answering his phone.” Clint tries not to sound too panicked, but Natasha picks it up anyway. 

“Clint, he’ll be fine. Coulson’s come through worse than this. Maybe his phone’s broken.” 

“That thing is made of titanium or some shit, he never goes anywhere without it.” There’s no one guarding the gate to the Stark Industries campus, so Clint jerks to a stop and leaves the car running while he goes through the guard’s booth. It isn’t difficult to find the arc reactor building – the smoke coming off it is thick, black, and can probably be seen from space. 

“You there?” Natasha asks. 

“Yeah. I’ll call you back.” 

“You’d better.” 

Clint tries calling Coulson one more time, but still doesn’t get an answer. As he’s running over, he meets the SHIELD clean-up crew coming from the opposite direction. “Report,” he yells. The leader squints at him until he shows her his badge, and then she nods and directs her team with her hands as she speaks. 

“Team of six agents accompanied Stark’s PA to this site not long ago. They were attacked by some sort of robot, and a smaller robot took it out on the roof by overloading the arc reactor. We think. Four of our team survived, two of them have sustained injuries, non-fatal. Civilian Pepper Potts is unharmed; Tony Stark is on the roof.” 

A woman’s voice screams, “Tony!” from above, and the clean-up leader barks an order at two of her subordinates, who quickly go to check it out. 

“Someone call for a medical team for Stark,” she snaps over her shoulder. 

“The team, our agents,” Clint says urgently, “where are they?” 

“Round the corner,” she says, and he tells himself he’ll thank her later as he sprints away. Let Coulson be okay, he thinks. Let him be alive. 

He almost falls on his face, he turns the corner at such a speed, and the relief that hits him nearly bowls him over anyway, because Coulson is there. He’s rumpled, and his suit is covered in dust, but he’s fine. He turns to see Clint and frowns. “Barton,” he says, waving a hand at a paramedic trying to give him a shock blanket, “what are you doing here?” 

Clint lets out a long breath and laughs. “Tying up loose ends, remember? Is your phone broken?” 

Coulson scowls. “It’s still inside the building.” 

Clint only just manages to stop himself from giggling like a breathless kid and pulls his own phone out to call Natasha. “He’s here,” he says right away, “he’s fine.” 

“Put him on,” she says in a hard voice. Clint grins and holds the phone out to Coulson, who takes it with a roll of his eyes. 

“Yes,” he says, “yes, I’m fine, no injuries, barely a bruise. Two of my team were killed; two more have sustained minor injuries. Stevens and Giannoni. Yes. I am aware of that. No, Stark’s…really? I see. Thank you.” He holds the phone out and Clint takes it. 

“I think he knows we were worried about him,” he says, grinning at Coulson, who shakes his head and turns away to talk to the medical team. 

“Stark _was_ the small robot,” Natasha tells him quickly. “Stane was the big one. And they weren’t actually robots – they’re some kind of advanced suit.” 

“Stane?” 

“Obadiah Stane, trying to muscle Stark out of his company?” 

“Oh yeah.” 

“Keep up,” she sighs. “That’s how Stark escaped in Afghanistan – he built himself a suit and flew out.” 

“After blowing the place sky-high.” 

“Uh huh. And Stane was actually involved with that somehow, but he built his own copycat suit when Stark got back.” 

“And they decided to fight for the company or something?” 

“No idea. Hang around and get back to me if you hear anything new. I’ll call you if I get anything.” 

“Will do.” Clint hangs up and looks over at Coulson. He’ll care more about Stevens and Giannoni later, but for now he’s still riding high on relief. Coulson’s okay. Not a scratch on him. Clint lets out a huge sigh and goes over to see if they can use his help with anything. Coulson’s okay. Everything will always be fine as long as Coulson’s okay. 

 

 

“Worst week of all time.” Clint flops heavily into the couch in the Helicarrier common room and sighs. Natasha glares at him. 

“Not compared to mine. You got the pretty Norse god who turned out to be a friendly. _I_ got two Hulk attacks. And you had Coulson with you.” 

“Actually, Coulson had me. And my week was made especially irritating because the end of it was so boring, and I was called in from my first week off ever.” 

“Spare me,” Natasha says witheringly. “I had to deal with Tony Stark the self-destructive billionaire, _and_ the Hulk. I win.” Clint opens his mouth to argue, and she lifts a threatening finger. “I got Fury to snap, and he yelled at me. He got me to sit in on one of his conferences with the World Security Council. _I win_.” 

He absorbs this and then slumps back into the couch. “Yeah, fine, you win.” 

“I am close to being a hundred percent sure that I will never have a more stressful week in my life,” she says, closing her eyes. “How was New Mexico, by the way?” 

“Dusty. Had more scientists than you might’ve imagined.” 

“Yeah?” 

“One of them was actually called Dr Foster, not even kidding. And oh, aliens exist, and they’re actually deities. Who knew?” 

Natasha shrugs and closes her eyes. “No sparring tonight. Let’s watch a movie.” 

“What did you have in mind?” 

“Something soft. Something with animals.” 

“For a deadly assassin, you have the weirdest taste in movies.” 

“You have no taste in movies,” she gives him a withering look. “How many times have you even been to the cinema?” 

Clint pauses and thinks. “Fewer than ten,” he admits after a while, and she snorts. He glares at her. “You’ve been more?” 

“Of course,” she stretches slowly and gets to her feet. “After I got out,” she means the Red Room, Clint’s heard her refer to her escape like that often enough to know, “I decided to catch up on what everyone else was doing. I’ve been to the cinema at least once in every country in Europe.” 

“Show off,” he grunts, and holds out his hand for her to pull him to his feet. “Fine. Something with animals.” 

They end up watching _The Rescuers_ , and if Clint finds himself enjoying it, well, no one but Natasha will know, and they spend most of the movie telling each other more about the worst week SHIELD’s had in living memory in more detail. 

“How did I not know the Hulk was green?” Clint throws his hands in the air. “I feel like that idiot at the party who’s the last to know his crush is making out with his enemy.” 

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Do you have a thing for giant green muscles that you’ve been keeping hidden?” 

“No,” Clint grumbles, “but I wish I’d known he was _green_. Sheesh. That’s got to be really noticeable.” 

“To be honest, it was the last thing on my mind,” Natasha admits dryly. She tells him about Mr Blue the mutated doctor, who has Banner’s blood in him, and he tells her about Dr Foster’s vendetta against the agents who’d returned her equipment. 

“She’s a slave driver,” he says, half an eye on the laptop screen where the alligators were playing the organ. “Her assistant was nice though.” 

“Darcy, right?” 

“Yeah. She bullied us about giving her iPod back though. And then teased me about not having one.” 

“Well your mp3 player is a little out of date.” 

“I can’t replace it until it breaks,” Clint argues. He can’t stand unnecessary waste. “She was nice though. Once we gave all her equipment back, they both were. I think SHIELD’s recruiting Selvig for something. Fury’s putting me on some sort of surveillance mission soon concerning him.” 

“He’s a threat?” 

Clint shrugs. “No idea. Pretty sure it’s something to do with the alien tech we got though.” 

“They’ll try and weaponize it,” Natasha points out. 

“Who can blame them?” Clint looks at her. “That thing wiped out half the town in seconds. The firepower it generated was insane. It almost killed Coulson and the others when it landed.” 

“Ohhhh,” Natasha smirks at him and he frowns. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she looks back at the screen, smirk still in place, “just understanding your dislike of the – what did you call it? The Destroyer?” 

“Yeah,” Clint glares at her. “And hey, of course I’m pissed at it. Sitwell was seriously injured.” 

“As long as Coulson was alright,” she breaks into a grin. 

He flicks her head and then rubs his hand through her hair. “Shut up.” 

She hums and doesn’t say another word, nudging his hand with her head to indicate to him to keep going. They end up falling asleep together on his bed, but it’s comfortable, and she kisses him with a smile before she leaves the next morning. 

 

 

Clint has no idea where Coulson finds the time to keep in shape as well as do everything else that he does, but every active SHIELD agent is required to be physically prepared for combat at all times, and Coulson logs the mandatory number of hours in the gym and training room (Clint’s checked). Despite all the time he’s spent on the Helicarrier and at various other bases with Coulson, he’s never seen the man in anything but a suit. Occasionally he’ll put a SHIELD vest on for a combat situation, but rarely more than that. 

Clint’s bored while Natasha’s away on some mission or another, waiting for his next posting, so he makes it his temporary mission to see Coulson in action. It’s much harder than it should be, but for once Clint hangs out in the training room more than the range (in which he spends at _least_ four hours a day when he’s not on a mission), and is eventually rewarded. A thrill goes through him when he sees Coulson walk in from the changing rooms, but he pretends not to see and keeps sparring with Agent Dobbs. He has to stay in there for another hour before Coulson takes off his sweatshirt, and Clint almost gets punched in the face because he’s so busy recovering from the fact that Coulson keeps _arms_ under his neat suit sleeves. Who knew? 

He breaks off eventually, out of breath and sweating heavily. He’s been working himself harder because of all the time he’s been spending in the training room recently. Dobbs collapses on the chair next to him and whistles. “Good bout.” 

“Not bad,” Clint agrees, trying to get his breath back. 

“Told you…I could beat you,” Dobbs grins and Clint shoves him with his shoulder. 

“Whatever…how much do I…owe you?” 

“Twenty bucks.” 

“Asshole.” 

“Whiner.” 

Clint wheezes a laugh and hangs his head, feelings his pulse beginning to slow down. “You off?” 

“Aren’t you?” Dobbs gets to his feet and starts stretching. “I need a shower, man.” 

Clint sighs and gets up to stretch as well. “In a bit. Might…say hi to Coulson.” 

They both look over to where Coulson is sparring gently with an agent Clint can’t remember the name of, a middle-aged man with dark skin. “See you later then,” Dobbs says, punching his shoulder before turning for the changing rooms. Clint keeps half an eye on Coulson as he continues to stretch. The ache in his muscles is deep, but good, the kind of pain that lets him know he’s done well. He keeps at it until Coulson finishes his bout, pinning his opponent down for a couple of seconds and releasing him with a wide smile before helping him up. Clint takes the opportunity to go over and grin. 

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you in here,” he says, and Coulson sighs, slightly out of breath. 

“Barton, you’re not actually here all that often.” 

“Yeah,” Clint shrugs, “but when I am here I don’t do much but move back and forth between here and the range. Speaking of the range, and shooting, do you know if R&D is talking to me yet? I’m running low on special arrows.” 

“You broke into their labs and stole equipment,” Coulson reminds him sternly. Clint grins, wide and unrepentant. 

“They were going too slow – and hey, it’s not like my flare arrows didn’t work.” 

“It wasn’t necessary to demonstrate it when they came looking for you,” Coulson narrows his eyes, but Clint just laughs. The flares had worked as a perfect distraction so that he could get away. 

“They’re still not talking to me then?” 

“They’re busy working on the Destroyer,” Coulson tells him. 

Clint opens his mouth, but before he can speak Coulson’s phone rings. “You keep that on you when you’re training?” 

“Of course,” Coulson flicks his thumb across the screen. “Coulson.” Clint frowns when he inhales sharply and goes to the side of the room where his sweatshirt is. He picks it up with one hand and beckons for Clint to follow him, which he does, slightly bemused and more than a little concerned. 

His mind goes instantly to Natasha, and he swallows the questions in his throat down to wait for Coulson to finish. Natasha very rarely gets herself into bad situations, so when it does happen it sets Clint on edge more than almost anything else. “Okay,” Coulson says into the phone, leading the way out of the training room, “I understand. Initiate a retrieval immediately, code delta. No. Whoever’s closest. Go, now.” He hangs up and quickens his pace. “It’s Natasha,” he tells Clint, whose stomach clenches. “She’s injured, but she has the information she went for.” 

“She in the wind?” 

“No. Ten Rings operatives are on her tail, close behind.” 

“Where is she?” 

“Classified. But a team’s on its way. Should get to her in under an hour.” 

“Anything we can do?” 

“Coordinate the retrieval; get in contact with her if possible. Her radio’s down.” 

Clint clenches his fists. “I can’t do anything, can I?” 

“No,” Coulson says honestly, “but I thought you’d want to know.” 

“Thanks.” They stop at the top of the flight of stairs that leads to the deck the bridge is on. “I’ll be in the range.” 

“I’ll keep you posted,” Coulson promises, and they part ways. All of Clint’s good feelings are gone – he’s tense again, jittery and itching to lash out at something. Shooting will calm him down. 

He hasn’t booked a slot, but the supervisor likes him. She smiles when he approaches and waves him ahead into the quiet section, reserved for weapons that aren’t firearms. There are two women there already, throwing knives, but they ignore him and he sets up his gear quickly, setting the course for archery. He keeps an ear out for his phone for an update from Coulson and loses himself in the steady motions of shooting. He’s still tired out from sparring, so he starts out slow, but soon the tension is too much and he’s firing faster and faster, starting to loose accuracy in the process. He’s almost at the point of yelling in frustration when his phone rings. 

“Coulson?” 

“Radio contact established. She’s hidden the data; she’s backtracking to take out her pursuers.” 

Clint swears under his breath. “She authorised to do that?” 

“Technically,” Coulson admits, but he doesn’t sound happy about it at all. “Intel says it’s fewer than ten, but they’re heavily armed.” 

“Of course they are,” Clint screws his eyes shut. 

“Barton?” 

“Sir?” 

“Don’t spend too long down there.” 

“Sure.” Clint slides his phone back into his pocket, stares at the targets peppered with his arrows, and collects them before activating the moving targets. He doesn’t leave the range until Coulson tells him that Natasha’s safe – headed for the nearest SHIELD base to go straight into medical, but safe. Clint almost collapses in the shower – five hours continuous sparring and working out and then two hard hours in the range takes its toll – and sleeps solidly for ten hours. 

He goes with Coulson to the top deck when Natasha’s plane comes in a week later. She exits the plane gingerly, but smirks when she sees them. She’s wearing a scarf over her head, keeping her hair out of sight, and Clint grins when she kicks his ankle. “Good to see you too.” 

“Do I have any de-briefs?” she asks Coulson, ignoring him. 

“Not until the day after tomorrow,” he tells her, leading them back inside. “I figured you could use the time to recuperate.” 

“I’m fine,” she gripes. 

“You were stabbed,” he reminds her. 

“Barely,” she waves it off, but her other hand drifts to her middle. Later on, in Clint’s room, he pesters her to let him see. She still hasn’t taken the scarf off for some reason. “You’re disgusting,” she says, and he grins. 

“And? Come on, if it’s longer than six inches, you beat me. Surely that’s motivation?” 

She rolls her eyes but obligingly rolls up her stomach. There are two lines next to each other to the left and up from her belly button, the longer one about two and a half inches long, the other only one. Clint’s fingers hover over them, tracing the lines in the air. “How deep?” 

“Deep enough,” she sighs, rolling her top down. “I don’t care about that.” 

“There’s something else?” Clint frowns at her. “Coulson told me that was your only injury.” 

She pulls a face and touches the scarf round her head self-consciously. “It is.” 

Clint touches the edge of the scarf and tilts his head. “Natasha?” 

She frowns unhappily and admits, “Some of my hair caught fire. I had to have it cut.” 

Clint only just stops himself from saying, “That’s all?” because that would definitely earn him a punch to the face. Natasha isn’t vain – she’s aware of her beauty as much as she’s aware of her ability to wield knives: it’s just another tool she can utilise, nothing else – but she does like her hair. She always makes sure it’s well taken care off, soft and sleek, the curls shining like bloody copper. So instead, Clint asks, “How short?” 

She sighs and untucks the scarf, pulling it away. “Pretty short.” 

“Whoa.” Clint stares. What used to be halfway down her upper arms now just reaches past her earlobes. It’s a big change, and her mouth twists at his reaction. 

“Need a blanket for your shock there?” 

“You know,” he lifts his hand and fingers the ends thoughtfully, “I actually kinda like it. I mean, yeah, it’s different, but it looks good.” 

“You think so?” she sounds blank, but he can hear the uncertainty behind it, and he smiles. 

“Yeah,” he moves his fingers up and runs them through the strands. “It’s nice. You look real pretty.” 

“I didn’t before?” she smirks, amused, and he wrinkles his nose at her. 

“Shut up, you know what I mean.” 

Her smirk turns into a proper smile, and she touches her fingers to the roots. “It’s going to take a bit of getting used to,” she says. “It feels so much lighter.” 

“Which makes sense,” Clint nods, “what doesn’t make sense is that it _looks_ lighter. You noticed that?” 

“Yeah,” she frowns. “I don’t know why.” 

“Eh,” he shrugs, “it doesn’t really matter though, right?” 

“I suppose,” she concedes, dropping her hand and letting it rest on his knee. He tilts his head and looks briefly at her lips, asking permission without words. She smiles, dips her head just a fraction, and he leans in to kiss her, careful not to touch her injured front. They’re both slow and gentle, and when she slides a hand under his shirt to touch the skin of his back, it doesn’t surprise him. It’s fine, he thinks as she pulls his shirt off and lets him remove hers. They’re fine. They don’t need to define anything, and there’s no pressure. It’s fine. 

He smiles with closed eyes against her neck, lying next to her on the bed, and kisses her hairline, her cheekbones, her eyelids. She’s beautiful, he thinks, and doesn’t say so because she’s so much more than that, and in this case he thinks it’s better to stay silent. They don’t have sex, but they take off each other’s clothes and explore each other slowly, until they’ve touched every inch of the other’s body. She wraps a hand around his cock and jerks him off, but smiles and bats him away when he goes to try and return the favour. “Not now,” she murmurs, and they avoid the wet patch between them and he kisses the skin above her breasts and below her collarbone instead, presses his forehead to the spot afterwards. He feels her drop a kiss on the top of his head and he knows she’s smiling. 

“I trust you,” he whispers. It’s not love. It is love. It’s more and less than everything they think love is and isn’t. “I trust you,” he says again, and she strokes a hand through his hair. 

“I trust you,” she whispers back, and he closes his eyes and breathes out. The fact that he knows she’s telling the truth means more to him than he would ever be able to say, so instead he kisses her and hopes she understands. She smiles slowly when they part and he thinks that she does. 

 

 

With all the loose ends from the AIM mission finally tied up and the Iron Man, Hulk, and Asgardian incidents finally over, everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Clint’s free to put himself back on the active duty roster, and he’s pleased when he gets paired with Natasha for a mission in Quebec. “Just like old times, huh?” he grins at her when they board the plane, and she rolls her eyes but doesn’t hide her smile. The mission almost goes perfectly, but one of the men in the Ten Rings cell they’ve been tracking escapes and flees. They contact Coulson, who tries to waylay him at the airport where he lands, but he evades the agents placed there and vanishes into Europe. 

“I hate the Ten Rings,” Natasha hisses as they land in Budapest. “Every bad mission I’ve had recently has been Ten Rings-related.” 

“Well let’s keep calm, shall we?” Clint’s tired and irritable. 

“You keep calm,” she snaps. “And keep an eye on the available exits next time.” 

“For the fourth time,” he growls, “I didn’t know that passage was there. It wasn’t on the blueprints, and I don’t have x-ray vision. Don’t get your panties in a twist because you couldn’t subdue the whole room.” 

“You bring up my panties again and I’ll strangle you with them.” 

“Christ, Natasha,” his patience snaps, “what the hell? Is it your time of the month or something?” he winces the second he says it and opens his mouth to try and take it back, but when he looks at her he stalls. Her face is utterly blank but for a slight narrowing of the eyes, and when she looks at him he feels it like a physical blow. 

“If we weren’t in public right now,” she says very quietly, “I would beat you unconscious.” 

He pulls a pained expression. “Nat, I’m sorry –” 

“You don’t get to call me that right now,” she tells him, and hails a taxi. Neither of them can speak openly in front of someone else, so the ride to the hotel is silent and tense. Clint wants to beat _himself_ unconscious, or perhaps to death. He’s known for years that Natasha and the other girls in the Red Room were sterilised before they even reached puberty. He knows that it’s one of the things that Natasha resents them for the most, not because she particularly wants children, but because they took away the choice and just rammed home the fact that her body was their property and not her own. 

“I’m an idiot,” he says as soon as they get into their room. “I’m sorry.” 

“Let’s just do this,” she says, unpacking her gear and strapping her holster on. She pauses when she’s done, and he watches her sigh and run a hand through her hair before she turns to him. “You’re sorry?” 

“Yeah,” he meets her gaze evenly. 

“You’d let me punch you in the face?” she asks calmly, "kick you to the floor? Break some of your bones?" He nods. She purses her lips. “Fine. I’ll get on that as soon as this is over. Any problems?” 

“No.” 

“Good,” she nods and nods to his bag, where his collapsible bow is. “Let’s get going.” 

The mission goes south quickly. It soon becomes apparent that their target ran to Budapest because he has friends there, and Clint climbs up the side of a building and turns on his earpiece, keeping an ear on the dial tone as he pulls arrows from his quiver, nocks them, and releases them in smooth continuous movements, aiming as he goes. Natasha’s on the ground, outside the building opposite. The street has become a warzone, and Clint really hopes he doesn’t run out of arrows. He fires a putty one at an enemy’s face and already has another one nocked as it hits. 

The dial tone in his ear finally clicks. “Hawkeye, report.” 

It’s Lills, a female agent who’s handled him in the past. “Black Widow trapped on the ground, multiple hostiles still incoming, civilians present. We need a little help here, if it’s not too much trouble. You fucker,” he swears as one of the men below throws a grenade at Natasha. She catches it and throws it back, but the explosion cloaks the street in smoke and dust and he loses sight of her. “Not you,” he clarifies quickly for Lills, “enemy grenade, Black Widow out of sight.” 

“Connecting,” Lills says quickly, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief when Natasha coughs over the line, all three of them on the same frequency now. “Black Widow, report,” Lills orders. 

“Shrapnel in my back and shoulders,” she says in a hard voice. “Not serious, not deep. Barely breached my suit. No vision – too much dust. Hawkeye?” 

“On your left,” Clint says, and the man trying to sneak up close to Natasha’s vantage point is gunned down in three shots. 

“Backup en route, headed by Agent Coulson” Lills tells them, sounding distracted. “ETA twenty-five minutes.” 

“Great,” Clint mutters, running his fingers over his remaining arrows. There are fewer than ten. “Okay, we –” there are two gunshots behind him, and he turns with an arrow nocked as the door to the roof slams open and four men run out. He downs one and rolls behind a ventilation pipe to avoid getting shot in return. “Lills?” he bites out, another arrow at his string. She should have visual by now. 

“Two o’clock,” she says quickly, and he shoots after peeking to confirm. “More coming up the stairs, Hawkeye, you need to get off the roof.” 

“On it,” he grunts, grabbing two arrows from his quiver at the same time. He puts one between his teeth and fires the other. The tip explodes on impact with the door. 

“Now,” Lills orders, so he knows the remaining two are distracted. He grabs the arrow from between his teeth and slams it as hard as he can into the stone at the base of the short wall that runs around the edge of the building. It holds, and the shaft pulls away when he tugs it and throws himself over the edge as bullets hit the stone where he had been crouching. The cord unwinds quickly but steadily, and he prays as he drops that they don’t manage to shoot the cord or the arrow that holds it. 

“Got you covered,” Natasha says in his ear. 

“Thanks,” he grunts. The cable goes slack – someone’s cut it – and he drops the last eight metres or so. He rolls behind a car as soon as he hits the ground. 

“Hawkeye, status,” Lills barks. 

“I’m good,” he says, testing his weight on his ankles. “All fine. Widow, keep me covered – I’m coming to you.” 

“Ready,” she says, and bullets fly as he dashes across the open street and into the still settling dust cloud opposite. He skids in next to her – she’s behind what looks like a barricade of rubble. 

“I don’t like this war movie,” he says, and she smirks. 

“I got you a present,” she pokes something with her foot, and he grins when he sees – a collection of his arrows, mostly reusable. She must have reclaimed them from the guys he shot from the roof. 

“You always know what to get me,” he scoops them up and slides them into his quiver. Their weight is very reassuring on his back. “Lills?” 

“Men on the roof where you left,” she says, “more incoming from both ends of the street. Five left, nine right. They’re moving slow, being cautious.” 

“How many on the roof?” 

“Ten at first count. Possibly more where I don’t have eyes. Backup team ETA eighteen minutes.” 

“ _Thanks for the tip_ ,” an unfamiliar voice, deep and raspy, and Clint and Natasha both curse, him in English, her in Russian. 

“Compromised channel,” Clint spits, tapping his earpiece. 

“Lills?” Natasha pokes her head over the rubble and fires several shots. “ _Fuck_.” 

“Here,” Lills sounds stressed. “Frequency scrambled.” 

“Great,” Clint starts firing arrows. “You’ve warned the team?” 

“I have.” 

“Keep us posted.” 

“Will do. Roof to your right, two enemies.” 

“Got it,” Clint narrows his eyes, and releases. One goes down, the other ducks before he can get a fix on them. Clint focuses on one of the figures in the street – he can’t afford to wait anyone out. He keeps his head in the game and doesn’t think about Coulson, about to be ambushed by who the hell knows what. He shoots everything that moves beyond their barricade, and the noise of Natasha’s guns so close is so loud he doesn’t hear glass crunch underfoot behind him. 

“Hawkeye, six o’clock!” Lills shouts suddenly. Clint ducks and bullets sail over his head. He throws himself backwards without looking. 

“Hey!” he yells, getting Natasha’s attention. She turns, fires a single shot, turns back to the main battle. Whoever he fell on goes limp, and he knows Natasha got a headshot. “I’m checking the back,” he tells Natasha and Lills. Natasha nods, Lills says nothing, so he goes. 

Two more men fall, and he blocks the back door of the coffee shop he didn’t even realise they were outside of as best as he can and leaves it. “Keep an eye on that, Lills,” he says. 

“Negative, can’t get a visual,” she sounds frustrated, and then gasps. “Backup team is grounded, unable to reach you.” 

“Fine,” Natasha says – she’s comfortable working against the odds, and Clint covers her back as she shoots continuously. “Cover,” she snaps, and he fires a smoke bomb arrow into the street, masking their position again. He realises as he fires it that it’s his last arrow. He squats low and pulls out the knife strapped to his thigh, putting his bow down. 

“No more ammo,” he says, and Natasha nods, attention on the street and rooftops. “Lills?” 

“Rooftop opposite, only two men left. Widow, three o’clock!” 

As Natasha turns, Clint sees a dark shape move in the smoke, and he leaps forward and tackles Natasha to the ground a second before the building behind where she had been standing is peppered with bullet holes. 

“Still one at your three,” Lills tells them, “One at eleven, two more advancing from your left.” 

“I’ll take three, you take eleven,” Clint mutters – Natasha needs to cover their left because she’s the one with the guns. 

“Deal,” she nods and gets to her feet, shifting slightly before launching herself over the rubble at their attacker. Clint runs at the one to their right, almost gets shot, and manages to take him out with a knife to his throat. He ducks behind a car and watches Natasha take out her eleven o’clock, the other two men coming from the left, and then the last two on the rooftop with Lills’ guidance. 

He checks behind him, straightens, and grins at her through the fading smoke. She smiles back, more relief than anything, and the change in her expression from pleased to horrified is all that warns him before someone grabs the knife from his hand and tries to ram it into his back. They try, but Clint turns and it slices across his arm instead, just above his elbow. He shouts and staggers back, and Natasha shoots the man between the eyes before he can try again. Clint slaps his hand over the cut and hisses – it’s deep, and it hurts like hell. 

“Report,” Lills orders. 

“Flesh wound, minor,” Clint says as Natasha runs over to check him, her eyes huge. “No big deal. What’s the word on our backup?” 

“Still in combat with multiple enemies, no men down,” Lills tells them, and Natasha hustles them off the street. There are sirens wailing, and Clint knows that SHIELD must have been running some serious interference to have kept them back for so long. 

“Keep us posted,” he says. Natasha rips an apron from the coffee shop behind their barricade into strips and binds the cut on his arm quickly. They grab their weapons and slip away from the scene, back to their hotel room. Halfway there, Lills tells them that the backup team subdued whoever attacked them, but won’t be ready to get to them for another hour at least. 

“That’s fine,” Natasha says, “we’ll be ready. Out till then – we need to clean up.” 

“Confirmed,” Lills says. “Report back in thirty minutes.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Natasha says, and cuts the connection. When they get into their room, bloodstained uniforms hidden under nondescript sweatshirts, Natasha cleans and bandages his wound properly and keeps her hands there for a moment. Clint frowns and touches her wrist with his good hand. 

“Natasha? You alright?” 

She looks up at him and opens her mouth slightly, then changes her mind and leans forward to kiss him. It’s hot and insistent, and he opens to it instantly, hand going from her wrists to her hair. The adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off yet, and she climbs into his lap on the bed where he’s sitting and straddles him in an easy motion that makes him sigh into her mouth. He pulls her close and grinds up against her, and it’s just what they want. 

They undress themselves and each other quickly and she rolls him onto his back first, running her hands over every inch of him she can reach. He holds her in place and groans when she gets up on her knees and positions him at her entrance. She slides down slowly, and he tips his head back against the pillow and presses his fingers into her back. “Yes,” he whispers, and she kisses him with too much tongue before starting to move, and when she starts to moan, eyes closed and breathing uneven, he shifts and rolls them. “Kay?” he asks, and she smiles. 

“Yes.” 

It’s a better angle, and they both gasp, her hands raking down his back and squeezing his ass as they rut into each other, Clint squeezing his eyes shut and losing his focus as he gets close. “Gonna –” he gasps, and she sucks his neck, not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to make him cry out. 

“S’fine,” she sucks in a shuddering breath as he breaks and comes, rhythm coming undone as his hips stutter against hers. “Mmmm,” she kisses his cheek and waits for him to finish properly before moving so that he slides out. “Fingers,” she orders, and he rolls onto his side and presses his forehead against her shoulder. 

“One moment,” he pants, and she runs her hand through his hair while he recovers. “Okay,” he whispers, and slides a finger into her without warning, following it with another almost immediately. She kisses him and then tilts her head back. 

“There,” she breathes, hips thrusting, and he ignores his protesting muscles, tired and sore from so much shooting, and pushes a third finger in before repeating the movement that makes her jerk against him, harder and faster when she urges him until she finally tightens around him and bites her lip hard. 

They lie next to each other for a few long minutes afterwards, cooling down and getting their breath back. When they’re both breathing normally again, Clint turns his head on the pillow and looks at Natasha, a bit of dust still on her face and grit still in her hair, and smiles. “I trust you, Natasha.” 

She closes her eyes for a second, then turns her head to look at him and give him a small, but genuine smile. “I trust you too.” 

They get up, and check in with Lills before sharing a shower. It’s good, Clint thinks as they wipe each other clean gently, whatever this thing is between them. It’s good, and right then, knowing that Natasha is safe and Coulson’s on his way to get them, he feels happier than he has for years. 


	7. This Old World Must Still Be Spinning Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint attends a funeral, visits a grave with Natasha, and discovers that Coulson has a bit of an obsession with Captain America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to add links for the songs I'm naming the chapters for, because I figure everyone likes music. They're all pretty well matched to the mood of each chapter, so check the notes for the previous chapters if you're interested. :)
> 
> Chapter title from [You Can Close Your Eyes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nh3EV9SeJvY) by James Taylor.

Clint’s never been to a funeral before. 

SHIELD agents and personnel who die don’t get funerals. They’re too obvious, and too open. Instead, they are remembered by their friends and colleagues in quiet moments, usually accompanied by a raised glass and bowed heads, perhaps a toast of some kind. Surprisingly, Clint’s never been too close to anyone who’s died. He’s known agents, some on a first name basis, but he would count few of them as true friends. They’re associates, no more. 

He accepts the folded flag they press into his hands numbly, and doesn’t speak to anyone on the way back to the road. They didn’t know him anyway. They were Barney’s friends. Barney’s associates. Barney’s fellow soldiers. Clint drives to a motel and doesn’t pick up his phone when Natasha calls. He feels cold. Empty of everything but a pale horror and disbelief, and under that lies a screaming, roaring grief he can’t face yet. He strips down to his boxers and a t-shirt and falls asleep. He can’t cry, not yet. He doesn’t dream. 

He wakes up very late in the afternoon. He doesn’t leave the room until the day after that, when he gets hungry. He drives to the local diner, eats something he doesn’t remember later, and goes back to the motel. He can’t bring himself to do anything more. The number of missed calls on his phone increases, but he doesn’t notice. 

When someone knocks on his door sharply, he opens it to see Natasha. She looks angry until she takes in the state of him – scruffy, unshaven, not too sweet smelling – and then she pushes him back into the room and pulls off his shirt. “This place has a shower,” she says, unzipping his jeans and pushing them down his hips, taking his boxers with them, “you should probably take advantage of that.” She has to get down on her knees to pull his socks and shoes off, and she gets him to step out of his pants as well before she turns him around and propels him toward the bathroom. “Shower,” she says firmly. He lets her push him in and turn the knob. He gasps when the water hits him, painfully hot, but Natasha’s shut the cubicle door so there’s nowhere to go. He hears her leave the bathroom and stands there in silence until he grows accustomed to the heat and the water no longer burns his skin. 

He seems to feel every drop of water that strikes him, and when he shivers, he feels the goosebumps race across his arms. He’s hot and cold at the same time now, and his throat starts to close up and his eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. He’s glad for the cover of the shower as he sinks to the floor and starts to cry. 

 

 

“Feel better?” Natasha asks calmly when he emerges from the bathroom, towel around his waist. She’s lying on his bed reading a magazine, and she lowers one leg over the edge and hooks the strap of the backpack she brought with her with her foot and flings it at him. He only just catches it. “I brought you some spare clothes.” 

“I don’t deserve you.” 

She lifts her eyes from her magazine and smiles, just the faintest quirk of her lips. “Tough. You’ve got me anyway.” 

The smile he gives her in return is a cracked, broken thing, but it’s the most positive thing he’s done in days, and he has a feeling that Natasha knows it. “Orders?” 

“Coulson told me to get you back where he can see you by tomorrow,” she says, sitting up and stretching. Clint’s smile gets a little bigger, and she nods at the bag he’s holding. “Change,” she says. “Do you want to visit Barney’s grave before we leave?” 

He stalls as he’s pulling a fresh pair of jeans out of the bag. He dresses while he thinks, and nods when he’s done. “Yeah. I think so.” 

“You want to go alone?” 

He has to think that one through as well before he answers. “No. Do you mind?” 

“Not at all,” she says, getting to her feet. “Shall we?” 

He drives them to the cemetery and leads her to Barney’s fresh grave. The headstone is white, like the many others around it, with Barney’s name in stark capitals at the top, and the dates of his birth and death at the bottom. May 18 1972. January 15 2011. He kneels down in front of the stone and traces the numbers with his fingertip. He wants to tell Natasha that he thought he’d have time, that they’d both have time to catch up on each other’s lives properly, to get to know each other again. Instead, he says, “Nat?” 

“Yes?” 

He looks over his shoulder at her. “How do you deal with death?” 

She waits for him to get up and then steps forward to press her shoulder against his. “Absorb the impact,” she says quietly, “accept the loss, move forward.” 

“Not move on?” 

“Moving on implies leaving it behind. Death is part of what we do. We can’t ignore it or pretend it isn’t there. I don’t forget the deaths of those I considered important, but I can’t keep them in my mind all the time. I remember them when my mind turns to it – it’s not like they will ever go away because I can’t think of them every moment of the day – and move forward.” She looks up at him with a blank expression. “Does that help you?” 

He puts an arm around her shoulders and leans his cheek on her head for a moment. “Yeah,” he says finally, staring down at Barney’s gravestone. “Thanks, Nat.” 

“Don’t mention it.” She puts an arm around his waist and moves him gently around. “Come on, we have a plane to catch. And Clint?” 

“Yeah?” 

“If you ever refuse to answer your phone to Coulson or me again, I will break at least two of your bones.” 

 

Coulson doesn’t say a word when Clint sees him on the Helicarrier, just after getting back with Natasha. He just taps Clint’s arm and beckons for him to follow. Clint expects a dressing-down when he steps into Coulson’s office, because not answering the phone is a big offence as far as anyone from SHIELD is concerned. There’s a good reason Clint panicked when Coulson didn’t answer his in Malibu. 

Coulson sits behind his desk and motions for Clint to take the chair in front of it. Clint resists the urge to hang his head like a schoolboy as Coulson leans his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers. It’s difficult to meet his eyes, but Clint manages it. For about three seconds. When he looks away, Coulson sighs and leans back in his chair. “I understand that this was difficult for you,” he says quietly, “but I hope you understand how much you worried us.” 

Sometimes Clint thinks he’ll never be done apologising to Coulson for the mistakes he’s made. “I’m sorry,” he says. Coulson waves a hand. 

“The blame is at least partially mine. I should have known you would want to be alone and established that before you left.” 

Clint looks up and frowns. “What? No – this was my fault. I should’ve picked up and I didn’t, and I caused trouble. It’s my fault.” The words echo in his head – his fault. It’s his fault. There are always things he should do that he doesn’t, and it ends badly, usually with people hurt. It was his fault. He knows that. 

Coulson gives him a long look Clint can’t quite decipher, and he ducks his head and clenches his fists. Sometimes he really hates not being able to read Coulson. “Barton,” Coulson says. 

“Sir,” Clint says, not looking at him. 

“Barton, look at me.” Clint lifts his eyes reluctantly and meets Coulson’s steady gaze. “It _wasn’t_ your fault. You’re my agent. I should’ve anticipated your reaction to the loss of your brother and taken steps to –” 

“Barney,” Clint interrupts, and frowns. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to –” 

“It’s fine, Barton,” Coulson says. “It’s fine.” 

He’s silent for a long moment, and Clint looks down at the floor again, swallowing around the lump that’s appeared in his throat. “It’s not fine,” he whispers. He hears Coulson get up, but it still surprises him when he kneels on the floor in front of the chair to meet Clint’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry about Barney,” he says, and there’s something about the tone of his voice – not pitying or sympathetic – that makes something in Clint break. He feels tears in his eyes, and he squeezes them shut, mortified. “It’s okay,” Coulson says, and Clint looks down to see him holding out a handkerchief, of all things, and of _course_ he carries a handkerchief. It’s such a Coulson thing to do. He takes it and presses it hastily to his eyes, but the tears keep coming. He can’t break down and bawl in front of Coulson like a child, so he just keeps his eyes closed and tries to stop, but it’s like trying to hold water in his hands. 

Coulson’s hand rests on his knee where he’d held out the handkerchief, and he doesn’t move. Clint ducks his head, but it’s futile, and he screws up his face when his shoulders start to tremble. “It’s okay,” Coulson says softly. 

“No,” Clint manages to say, voice hoarse, “it’s not, it’s not, I should’ve…done something, I don’t know, told him I…I thought I’d see him soon, when he got back…I thought…” 

“It’s okay,” Coulson says again, and, “you can talk about him if you want to, you know.” 

“I don’t have anyone left now,” Clint whispers, only still talking because it’s keeping the tears at bay, “I guess you’ll have to update the paperwork. No more next of kin.” 

“Is there anyone else I could put down?” 

“No. The only ones I care about are you and Natasha, and you’ll know anyway if I get myself killed. Fuck,” he scrubs at his eyes with the handkerchief, and then the heel of his hand. He sniffs and hands it back to Coulson. “Sorry.” 

Coulson takes it and straightens, the hand on Clint’s knee transferring to his shoulder. “You have nothing to apologise for.” 

Clint snorts. “There’s always something,” he mutters. 

“Barton.” Coulson waits until Clint looks up at him. “There are some things you never have to apologise for. Grieving the loss of a brother is one of them.” 

Clint swallows and nods as Coulson goes back behind his desk. “Thanks, Phil.” 

“Any time, Barton.” 

Clint pins down what he’s feeling when he’s alone in his room that evening, about to go to bed. He’s feeling a little better, he realises. And he feels okay about having a small breakdown in Coulson’s office, which is strange, because usually he’s so careful about keeping himself under control. But something about the way Coulson reacted, so calmly, with no fake sympathies or false gestures, is comforting. Nothing’s changed. It’s the same with Natasha – her reaction was totally unruffled and no-nonsense. She didn’t pretend to know anything about Barney or their relationship. 

The empty space on the next of kin line matters less, suddenly. He’ll be okay. It still hurts, and he still writes Barney’s name on scraps of paper and traces the lines of the letters and numbers on his gravestone in his mind, but he’ll be okay.

 

 

“What’s that?” Clint asks Coulson, eyes narrow and curious. 

“Nothing,” Coulson says calmly, tucking the _something_ into the inside pocket of his jacket. Clint makes a mental note and shrugs as if it’s no big deal. But he knows how to break into the lockers on the Helicarrier, even though Coulson’s is a little more secure than most. He finds Coulson’s spare jacket inside it, and the inside pocket isn’t empty. He waits for Coulson to come back from the gym, freshly showered and crisply suited, and when Coulson turns the corner and sees Clint leaning against the row of lockers with three cards held between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, his expression darkens.

“The SHIELD policy on respecting people’s private property is strict, Barton,” Coulson says, snatching the cards from Clint when he gets close enough. “And if you think I’m not writing you up for this, you’ve got another thing coming.” 

“I was curious,” Clint shrugs, unrepentant, “and I knew you’d never tell me on your own. Which is dumb, because I think it’s pretty cool, actually.” Coulson raises a disbelieving eyebrow and Clint grins. “Hey, who doesn’t like Captain America? I got the comics when I was a kid sometimes, when I could afford it.” _When I could steal them_ goes unsaid, but he knows Coulson understands. Pocket money to an orphan was a foreign concept, after all. 

Coulson looks slightly mollified, and he turns his attention to the cards. Clint doesn’t know how many are meant to be in the set, but Coulson has #1, #5, and #10. All three feature Captain America striking poses that should by all rights make him look like a complete idiot, but just make him look like a hero. Clint wonders what the man was actually like. “At least you didn’t damage them,” Coulson says after checking them over, and Clint snorts. 

“You have such a low opinion of me.” 

“Well, it does mean that you can only impress me,” Coulson says, smiling slightly, and Clint laughs. 

“True. Those are really old, right? I’ve never seen cards like that before.” 

Coulson hesitates and gives Clint a measuring look, but he must decide Clint is actually interested because he nods and says, “They’re vintage. From the first set ever marketed, while Cap was actually alive.” 

“Cool,” Clint stands aside so that Coulson can get into his locker and replace the cards. Clint doesn’t miss the way he inspects the lock. “I didn’t break anything,” he says, “just picked it.” 

“You have too much time on your hands,” Coulson murmurs, and closes the door. Clint follows him as he walks to his office. 

“So how come you only have three?” 

“I’m collecting them.” 

“Why now?” 

“Why the interrogation, Barton?” 

“I’m interested, sue me. Why now?” 

Coulson sighs, but answers. “You’ve heard about our operation in the Arctic Circle?” 

“I heard we found some old HYDRA tech out there, from way back.” 

“Back to its original creator, actually. The tech we’ve unearthed has come from Red Skull’s personal inventory.” 

“No shit,” Clint grins. “What does that have to do with your cards?” 

“How much do you know about Captain America’s death?” 

“Uh…that he killed himself saving the world, pretty much, right? Drove a plane into the sea to stop it dropping bombs along the east coast?” 

“He drove Red Skull’s personal plane into the Arctic Ocean, saving millions of people at the cost of his own life.” 

Clint isn’t slow on the uptake. “You started collecting vintage Captain America trading cards because SHIELD might be getting close to actually finding his body? Holy shit.” 

Coulson shrugs and says something Clint doesn’t quite catch. 

“Huh?” 

“It won’t be my first set,” Coulson admits after a moment. 

“What d’you mean?” 

They reach his office, and Coulson lets them both in, closing the door behind them. “I collected the cards when I was younger,” he explains, “the comics too.” 

“So…” Clint sits down as Coulson does, tilting his back on two legs and ignoring Coulson’s disapproving look. “What happened?” 

Coulson gets a pinched sort of look. “My cousin burned them.” 

Clint raises his eyebrows. “What, all of it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Wow. Did you really piss him off or something?” 

“Or something,” Coulson agrees. “We didn’t get on.” 

“No kidding,” Clint mutters and laces his hands behind his head. “So you’ve decided to start your collection again from scratch?” 

“Well, I decided that I could probably leave out the Captain America bed sheets,” Coulson smiles faintly and Clint laughs. 

“Bed sheets? Really?” 

“I was ten,” Coulson argues, and Clint raises his hands. 

“Hey, no hating from me – I didn’t even _have_ bed sheets for most of my childhood.” He grins when Coulson nods. “So how come you like Cap so much? Teasing aside.” 

Coulson starts going through his in-tray with a small frown. “I…read the comics when I was a kid. Pretty much since I can remember. I was probably given my first one by someone as a present. There isn’t a tragic backstory. I didn’t project anyone onto him. I just liked him. Standard hero worship, really. Like you said, everyone likes Captain America.” 

“Not everyone,” Clint tries to lean his feet on Coulson’s desk and gets his toes smacked with a pen for his trouble. “Barney –” he barely stumbles over the name, “– wasn’t really a fan.” He’s been talking more about Barney than he used to, he knows. He thinks it’s his way of trying to reinforce the fact that he exists. Exist _ed_. If more people know, the more their time together feels real. “What did you like so much about Cap anyway?” 

“He was a good person,” Coulson replies without hesitating, not looking up from his paperwork. “He always did what was right, no matter what the cost was to himself. He stood up for people who couldn’t stand up for themselves. He didn’t believe in prejudice or intolerance. He was everything a true hero should be.” 

Clint narrows his eyes and watches Coulson, who still refuses to look up. When Clint stays silent, his ears go slightly pink, and when he sees, Clint grins. “You model yourself on him, don’t you?” 

Coulson tilts his head, still not looking up. “To a point. I’ve had to do things that are considered, at best, morally ambiguous. SHIELD frequently operates in shades of grey, and there isn’t room for the sort of blind heroism Captain America embodies in my line of work.” 

Clint pauses, and then smiles crookedly. “Hey, Coulson. Hey,” he says when Coulson doesn’t look up, “Phil.” Coulson raises his eyes and Clint grins. “I think you’re a pretty good hero.” 

Coulson huffs air through his nose, as close to a laugh as Clint’s seen him get. “Thank you, Barton.” 

“Your birthday’s in July, isn’t it?” 

“I’m still not telling you how old I am.” 

“Eighth, right?” 

“Natasha’s sworn not to help you hack the system to find out, you know.” 

“I’m totally going to deck the Helicarrier in Captain America bunting. I’m going to get you a Captain America _cake_.” 

Coulson glares at him. “You do so, and I will send you to the Arctic Circle to freeze slowly.” 

Clint laughs and tips his chair back on two legs. “Phil, what would Captain America say?” 

“I’m sure he’d understand.” Phil rolls his eyes and then frowns, skimming the file he’s just opened. 

“What is it?” Clint leans forward, curious. 

“Fury’s got a task for you,” Coulson says slowly. 

“A mission?” 

“Surveillance. Do you remember Dr Erik Selvig?” 

“From New Mexico? Sure, I remember. Fury mentioned something about putting me on his tail.” 

“Boss has him working on an artefact SHIELD’s had since Captain America went down. It’s very important and _very_ classified. He wants you down there keeping an eye on it.” 

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Sounds boring.” 

Coulson narrows his eyes. “You’re going. With any luck, you’ll be there until my birthday is past.” 

“Aw, you don’t mean that,” Clint laughs. “Don’t I get a choice at all?” 

“No,” Coulson decides, flipping the file closed. “You’re going.” 

Clint laughs, then thinks for a moment. “You really think I’ll be there till July?” 

“I’ll be checking up regularly, don’t worry.” 

Clint pretends he isn’t relieved, but he’s pretty sure Coulson can tell anyway.


	8. I Hear The Voice Of Rage And Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint loses himself to a blue world and gets snapped out of it, Chitauri attack New York, and Natasha has to break some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Bad Moon Rising](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BmEGm-mraE) by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

_“You have heart.”_

_Blue, sinking into him, filling him up. New purpose, new objective, new targets. Sir – Loki – king. He is a blue-lined instrument, ready to be used. Blue-edged eyes gazing into the Source, a glowing cube of endless, untapped energy. Serve. Obey. Kneel._

_He looks out at the world that belongs to the king and does as he’s bidden. He’s a weapon, a shield, an informant. He’s what he needs to be, poured into a blue mould and shaped to his king’s desires. Pliant, submissive, obedient. The swirling eddies of blue that shift constantly behind his eyes and under his skin move his limbs and command his thoughts, and he drifts with the tide. Compliant, yielding, amenable. Lost. Drowned._

_The blue shudders suddenly under a heavy blow and he_ surfaces, gasping for air and searching blindly for an anchor, for something to hold onto, to reassure himself that he’s awake and alive. “Natasha…?” 

She punches him in the face and his world goes dark. It’s black with no shining blue sneaking in, and it’s a blessing he falls into gratefully.

 

 

The attack on New York is a blur of action and Hollywood-quality acting on Clint’s part. He’s not recovered when he slides into the pilot’s seat of the quinjet, not even close. He can’t remember anything clearer than the imprints of actions, smears of colour, and the echo of voices from his time under Loki’s spell, and when he realises what he’s done – how many lives must have been snuffed out in the attack on the Helicarrier – he can barely think straight. It feels like his heart is pumping liquid ice through his veins instead of blood, and when he thinks of the blue that swirls around the edges of his mixed-up memories, he wants to throw up. He doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone or anything as much as he hates Loki for what he’s done to him. 

But when he says he can pilot the quinjet and Captain America looks to Natasha for confirmation, she nods without hesitance, and he doesn’t object. Captain America doesn’t second-guess her, doesn’t try to check Clint himself, doesn’t give any indication that he’s worried about Clint’s state of mind at all. It’s kind of amazing, and as Clint walks next to Natasha, a step behind the man in red, white, and a whole load of blue, it feels natural. He hasn’t ever met a man who can inspire trust and loyalty so fast, and he thinks that maybe Coulson was onto something with the hero-worship. He makes a mental note to tell him later, and the thought buoys him up slightly. Coulson’s too busy to co-ordinate the mission, Natasha told him, and seeing the wreck he’s made of the Helicarrier, it’s not surprising. 

They slot together as a team sort of accidentally. Clint doesn’t know any of them beyond Natasha, and somehow that doesn’t even matter. He doesn’t even get a good look at Bruce Banner. He remembers first hearing about the man years ago on a plane from Coulson, and watching him transform into the Hulk and punch a giant alien space monster into the road is kind of incredible, and also kind of terrifying.

He's got to focus his gaze, narrow the window. He's got to keep his eyes on the task at hand, and not let himself think about the blue-edged blank space Loki's created in his mind. He can't think about it. He can't. If he does, he'll fall, and if he falls now he might not be able to get up. Natasha bumps shoulders with him, and he forces himself to anchor his feet on the ground for the time being. He taps out patterns for different arrow types on his bow, not actually pressing the buttons, and keeps his face dead so that no one will look too close. 

Captain America assesses their abilities and gives them jobs that suit them perfectly. Despite himself, Clint’s impressed. Stark calls him Legolas and tells him to clench up, and Clint does have to take a moment after being dropped on the roof to calm himself down, but then he pushes everything else aside – don’t think about the blue edge to his memories, don’t think about the Helicarrier falling from the sky, don’t think about the consequences of what he’s done, don’t think about Loki touching the spear to his chest and invading his mind – and focuses on what’s in front of him. He sees aliens and thinks _enemies_ , thinks _targets_ , and he twitches his fingers and selects his arrows with cold precision. 

When Natasha hands him Loki on a silver platter, Clint selects an arrow he’s been holding back. He knows what Loki’s reactions are like, even if he doesn’t remember how he knows, so he knows he’ll catch it. He also knows that he’s too cocky to throw it away immediately. When the arrowhead explodes, Clint feels a vindictive thrill, and when the Hulk leaps through the air to follow the path Loki had taken, he smiles a tight smile against the string of his bow as he releases it. 

And then Stark tells them that there’s a nuke. Clint feels a second of panic before he shuts it down and concentrates on staying alive. He’s out of arrows, running through a building that’s crumbling around him, and there’s a nuke headed for the city. He really wishes he had Coulson’s voice in his ear right now. 

Natasha’s voice is there instead. “Come on, Stark,” she mutters, and Clint would ask her what the hell is going on, but he’s out of arrows and very much at risk if one of the aliens sees him 

“Close it,” Captain America says, and Clint realises with shock that Stark must have flown the missile through and not come back. “Close the portal.” 

Clint reaches the bottom floor and backpedals immediately when he sees aliens. After a second though, he sees that they’re also all very dead. He throws a knife at one just in case, but when nothing happens he leaves his vantage point, collecting his knife on the way. It takes him a while to find the others, but when he does, Stark’s there. 

“Thought you went through the portal,” he says as he approaches. 

“I did,” Stark hauls himself up and grunts, testing his joints. “Man, space is not good for these suits, I’ve got to make some serious modifications before I try that again. How did I get down here in one piece, by the way? Did someone catch me?” 

“That would be the big guy,” Captain America nods to the Hulk, who skitters back on his feet and knuckles towards the tower. 

“Hulk smash puny god,” he says, and Clint feels the vibrations in his bones. 

“Loki?” Thor starts forward after him. “Where?” 

“In Stark’s tower,” Clint tells him, going around to a few of the alien corpses and finding a few with arrows in them. He checks them over and puts the good ones in his quiver. He knows Loki will be alive, and if he so much as twitches, he wants to make good on his desire to put an arrow in his eye. It won't kill him, but it'll hurt like hell. Loki's eyes are dark, green and blue and full of control. Clint doesn't know how he knows that. “Widow, you copy?” 

“Loud and clear. I’ve got Selvig up here with me.” 

“Stay put,” Captain America says, “we’re coming to you.” 

“Does my brother live?” Thor asks the Hulk, though Clint’s sure he must know the answer. 

The Hulk snorts derisively, but nods. “Puny god.” 

“Thor, go ahead,” Captain America orders, “make sure that Selvig and the Black Widow are okay. We’ll meet you there.” 

Loki doesn’t seem to see them when they assemble behind him. He’s slow, but it could easily be a trick. Clint keeps an arrow trained on him as he turns around, and he feels a sick jolt in his stomach as Loki’s eyes pass right over him. “If it’s all the same to you,” he says, and actually has the gall to _smile_ , “I’ll have that drink now.” Clint almost releases the arrow then and there, but Thor steps forward into his line of sight. He might be making sure that Loki can’t escape again, but he’s shielding his brother as well. Clint lowers his bow, but doesn’t put the arrow back in his quiver. He can nock, draw, and release it in a second flat if he needs to. He doesn’t know Thor well enough to truly trust his judgement, especially where it concerns his brother.

Stark stays with the Hulk at his tower to wait for Bruce Banner to reappear while the rest of them take Loki to SHIELD’s New York base. After they’ve deposited him in the most maximum security cell on offer, Clint notices the Captain staring around like he’s been there before. “You okay, Cap?” 

“Yeah,” he nods and smiles slightly, “I just…this is where I woke up.” 

Clint remembers Coulson telling him that and glances at Natasha. She doesn’t see, so he nods at Captain America. “You ran off, right? Right out of the building?” 

“Yeah,” Captain America sighs and straightens when Thor joins them. “Loki secure?” 

“I have restrained him,” Thor says soberly. “I can return us to Asgard as soon as I have the Tesseract.” 

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Captain America says confidently, and Clint exchanges a disbelieving look with Natasha. After all the effort Fury put into trying to tap the thing, he can’t believe he’ll let it go so easily. He says nothing though, and when Natasha suggests that he go ahead to check the path, just in case of anything untoward, he agrees. He’s glad she gave him the excuse to walk alone for a while. 

The path back to Stark’s ego-trip of a tower is more rubble than road, and Clint clambers over wreckage and around burning cars, trying to sort his mind out. He thinks he’s probably in shock – he can’t process the fact that he was responsible for so much death and destruction, not yet, and when he thinks about the people he knows he contacted to help Loki, his gut twists. Half because he can’t remember actually talking to any of them even though he knows he did, and half because he knows that uniting them like that will start a whole lot of problems for SHIELD in the future. They have each other’s numbers now, and that’s his fault. 

He resists the urge to call Coulson, because he needs to stay focused, and he really doesn’t want to hear about how much damage the attack on the Helicarrier sustained. Despite that, he needs a little reassurance. He knows already that Natasha doesn’t blame him for what he did while he was under Loki’s control, but he needs to hear that from Coulson before he’ll start being able to deal with it. The streets are still bare, SHIELD clean-up probably delayed because of the chaos on the Helicarrier. The Stark Tower looks empty, and he’s about to start tackling the stairs (there’s no way he’s trusting an elevator) when Natasha calls him. 

“We’re going to meet Stark and Banner outside,” she tells him. “You there yet?” 

“Just outside the tower, yeah,” he looked up at it. Only the ‘A’ is left, and his lips quirk. A for Avengers. The team that he and Natasha were never supposed to be on, but ended up fighting for anyway. 

“We’re on our way. Stay put.” 

“See you in a bit.” 

He checks the perimeter, more out of habit than because he thinks they might be in any danger, and he comes back just as Natasha, Thor, and Captain America pitch up, Stark and Banner exiting the tower at the same time. Thor smiles broadly. “I do not believe Hawkeye and Dr Banner have been introduced.” 

Banner seems skittish, more of him than any of the others, but Clint doesn’t mention it. He supposes it isn’t really surprising – Banner’s been running from military personnel for about seven years now, and out of him and Natasha, he looks more intimidating at first glance. Over shawarma, Stark waits until Thor goes to the restroom and then shows them footage from his security cameras on his phone of the Hulk smashing Loki around his living room like a toy. Banner looks embarrassed as hell, but Clint laughs properly for the first time that day and asks if Stark can send him the video. Stark looks delighted and tells everyone to call him Tony. Captain America tells them all to call him Steve. Clint and Natasha exchange a look, shrug, and tell the rest of the group they can call them by their first names as well. Tony puts his hand on Banner’s shoulder and says everyone should call him Bruce, and since the guy smiles, Clint figures he’s okay with it. 

They eat in comfortable silence, and Clint sneaks glances at the rest of them when they’re not looking. He wonders if Coulson got Captain – _Steve_ , if he got Steve to sign his trading cards yet. He’d been very excited about the prospect last time Clint had seen him. Nervous too, really. Not surprising, since his childhood hero had come back to life and was actually walking around SHIELD HQ in New York. Last time Clint had seen Coulson, he had come down to check on Project Pegasus, and Clint had teased him about not working up the courage to ask Captain America about signing his cards yet. He smiles to himself as he watches Steve chew his shawarma. If Coulson hasn’t already, Clint will do it for him. 

They sleep at the New York base, and Clint grins up at the ceiling when they walk under the place he had hidden when he decided to panic his superiors. And Coulson had walked in, looked around, and called him out with only a faint smile. “You talk to Coulson yet?” he asks Natasha before they bunk down for the night – Thor’s taking Loki back tomorrow. 

“No,” she shakes her head. “Fury told me he was still busy when I asked.” 

“See you in the morning,” he says, and she nods. 

“Try and find some decent civvies to wear for the press,” she says, and closes the door to her room. 

Clint wakes up earlier than he’d like, and he doesn’t feel as refreshed as he’d hoped either. He puts it down to knowing Loki’s in the cells below, and keeps a lid on the well of blue-edged panic and horror that he’s been carrying below the surface since Natasha snapped him out of it. His watch says it’s five past six in the morning, and Clint finds a bundle of his own clothes outside of his door. The fabric of his favourite jacket is familiar under his fingers, and he forms a plan as he dresses. There are still clothes outside Natasha’s door, so she isn’t awake yet. He takes his badge with him just in case and makes his way down to the cells. 

He feels numb, in a sort of narrow-edged, totally focused way. It’s his combat mind-set, when he can’t afford to focus on anything more than the target. Everything else goes. He isn’t a person, he has no memories or history – there’s only the target, and he’s just an instrument. He lets himself sink into the mentality he’s so used to and flashes his badge at the guard to the cells. 

“Here to see anyone in particular, sir?” the woman asks in a hard voice. Her breath smells of coffee. 

“The prisoner we brought in yesterday,” he tells her, expression blank and eyes dead. Focus on the target. “Loki.” 

She hesitates, but must decide that it’s okay because she presses her thumb to the pad next to the door and bends down to let another device scan her retina. The door beeps and hisses open an inch, and she waves him ahead. “You know the rules?” 

“Sure,” he says, not looking at her. “Don’t communicate, don’t approach the glass, don’t kill him. No problem.” 

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” she nods to her surveillance station. “Take as long as you want.” 

“Thanks.” 

She locks the door behind him, and he takes a slow breath in before walking down the row of cells. Loki’s in the one at the end, the most secure. The glass is pretty much bomb-proof and air is filtered in through a ventilation system impossible for even Clint to breach. Loki’s sitting down, and he’s got a sort of metal gag over his mouth, his wrists chained together. He looks up when Clint appears in his line of vision, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

Clint crosses his arms and stares at him; trying to…he doesn’t know what. Trying to remember, perhaps. He remembers Loki appearing in Selvig’s lab. He remembers him shrugging off bullets like they were balled-up bits of paper. He remembers rolling out of the way and then attacking when Loki passed. The strength in Loki’s hand, holding his wrist still. The unearthly pallor of his face. The glow of the sceptre. “You have heart,” he’d said, Clint remembers that, and then everything blurs. Blue too bright to look at seeping into him, locking him down, twisting him about. 

Peace. He remembers feeling calm, battle-ready, and loyal above all else to Loki, his king. The peace that came with such assurance overwhelming and powerful. 

The realisation almost makes him flinch, but behind a solid foot of bullet-proof glass, Loki’s eyes crinkle again. He misses nothing. Clint holds his gaze steadily and tries to remember more. Nothing much else comes. 

He knows he shot at Fury. He knows that he drove Loki out of the complex and left Agent Hill and everyone else to die. He knows that he drove them away and put Loki in contact with enemy agents. From AIM, he thinks, and the Ten Rings. Maybe HYDRA as well, he isn’t sure. He knows he loosed the arrow that took out the third engine on the Helicarrier. He _knows_ these things, but he remembers none of it clearly. It’s an uncomfortable sensation that doesn’t sit well in his mind, and he can tell that Loki knows it. 

The thought of what else he might have done under Loki’s orders chills his blood, but he stands there in silence and stares at the god who played with his brain like it was a toy put there for his personal amusement. Loki sits back, spreads his knees, relaxes. Looks back at Clint from under hooded eyelids and smiles under his gag. 

Clint’s never wanted to kill someone more than he wants to kill Loki. He’s got an advantage too – he knows how strong Loki is. He knows how much it would take to kill him. 

It would be his genuine pleasure to muster that power and loose it on the trickster. But he can’t. For the sake of universal peace, because Thor had been very clear on that when they left Loki here yesterday – if anyone attempted to harm Loki, they would have Asgard to answer to. And Clint’s seen first-hand the kind of firepower Asgard can bring down on them. He’s under no illusions about whose life matters more in this situation, but he’s used to his life meaning less than the success of the mission. It doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. 

“Agent Barton?” the guard’s voice comes over the intercom. “Agent Romanoff is here.” 

Clint doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want to say a word in front of Loki, whose eyes crinkle again as he nods. Clint walks away and doesn’t look at the guard when she opens the door for him. 

“You had breakfast?” Natasha asks him. When he shakes his head, she rolls her eyes and grabs his arm, dragging him away. “Come on. You’re meant to know this place better than me anyway.” 

They arrange to meet Tony and Bruce at the launch site, where the press will be waiting. A SHIELD press relations manager gives them a quick run-down on the dos and don’ts of the gig, and they’re driven there in SHIELD cars. It passes in a blur for Clint, and he doesn’t take his sunglasses off once. Tony swans around like he owns the ground they’re walking on, but Clint can tell by Natasha’s tone when she mutters, “Asshole,” under her breath that he’s not the only one who finds it amusing rather than irritating. 

“Thought Coulson would’ve been there,” he remarks to Natasha when they’ve driven away, and she frowns. “I guess he’s still busy.” He thinks for a moment and then grins. “I’m gonna call him.” 

“Wait,” Natasha tells him, eyes on the road. “Wait till we’re out of here.” 

“You want to talk to him too?” 

“Uh huh.” She takes a left, and Clint frowns. 

“Where’re we going?” 

“A safe house. We’re on leave for a while.” 

“According to who?” 

“Me. I cleared it with Fury, don’t worry.” 

“Where’s this safe house of yours then?” 

“Not far from here. Less than an hour, if we make good time. Put some music on?” 

“Sure.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence, and Clint stares out of the window as they drive, reminded of Lori and their year of driving. For once, Natasha doesn’t object to anything he puts on, so he takes advantage and plays Toby Keith, The Velvet Underground, even some Bowie. It takes them an hour exactly to get to Natasha’s safe house, which is a one-floor two-bedroom place outside a town called Clinton. Clint finds this highly amusing, and teases Natasha about it as they get out and go inside. She checks each of the rooms thoroughly, and he waits in the front hall for her to finish. When she comes back in, he raises an eyebrow. 

“Okay, what’s up with you? You haven’t hit me once, and you let me play Muse on the way here. Are you okay?” 

She draws in a breath to reply, but ends up frowning instead and jerking her head at the living room. He follows her inside, and she closes the door slowly, not turning around to face him until he speaks, worried now. “Natasha?” 

“Clint,” she turns, and she doesn’t look happy. “I’ve got some bad news.” 

He frowns as she crosses her arms and looks down. “What about?” 

“It’s about Coulson,” she says quietly, and Clint feels suddenly cold. 

“You said he was busy,” he says, confused and worried. “You said you called him.” 

She appears to steel herself and looks up to meet his eyes. “I lied.” 

The implications of that sink in slowly, and Clint swallows, feeling himself losing his grip on the fear he’s been keeping down since he came back to himself from Loki’s control. “What do you mean, you lied?” he says, and he’s speaking too fast. “You mean he’s injured? He’s hurt?” 

“Clint,” Natasha sounds so sad, and he thinks no no no, please, no – “Coulson’s dead.” 

He’s numb, both distant and painfully present. No, he feels himself mouth as he shakes his head. No, no, it can’t be true. “Lying,” he manages to say, just a mutter at first, and then louder. “You’re lying,” he approaches her, not connecting his words with the pleading tone of his voice. “Natasha, please tell me you’re lying. Please,” she’s shaking her head, looking down, and he grabs her arms. “Nat, please, tell me you’re lying, tell me this isn’t true. _Please_ , tell me this is a lie. Nat –” 

“I’m so sorry,” she says at her feet, a crack in her voice, and that hits him harder than her words ever could. He stumbles back towards the couch, and she sucks in a shuddering breath and lifts her head. “Clint, I’m sorry.” 

He’s losing it, a part of him thinks distantly as his eyes refuse to focus on anything solid. He’s got no window, he’s losing himself. 

“I’ll tell you what happened,” he hears Natasha say as if from a great distance. “You should sit down.” The couch is there against the back of his legs, so he falls and lets it support his weight. He can’t form thoughts, he can’t seem to catch his breath – “Thor saw it happen,” her voice is quiet and slow, “Loki…tricked him into the Hulk’s cage. He was about to push the button to drop it when Coulson showed up with the Destroyer prototype and told him to back off. Loki used some sort of illusion, some sort of magic – he appeared to be in front of Coulson, but he came up behind him and stabbed him with the sceptre.” Clint’s hands start to shake. “Coulson fell, and Loki dropped Thor out. The security footage shows Coulson talking to Loki, getting him off his guard so he could get a clear shot at him. Fury arrived not long after, but Coulson died before they…before they could do anything.” 

There’s a noise, low-pitched and pained, and it takes a moment for Clint to realise that it’s him. He can’t breathe properly, can’t seem to suck in a full lungful, and he gets to his feet jerkily, unable to look at Natasha. “I need,” he gasps, losing his grip, “I, I need a window, I need…” 

“Here,” Natasha says, her voice thick, “follow me,” and he follows her through the door and goes into the room she gestures to, which turns out to be the bathroom. He locks the door and peels off his clothes with shaking hands. The world feels like it’s spinning, and he can’t think straight. The water’s cold when it hits him, but he grits his teeth and puts his hands out to the cubicle walls to keep himself upright and waits until it begins to grow warm. 

_No_ , he thinks, over and over, his mind sticking on one simple thought. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, please, no, not Coulson, not Coulson, _no_ … 

The water heats up slowly and when it starts to steam, Clint squeezes his hands into fists and _screams_.


	9. I Am Folded, And Unfolded, And Unfolding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha forces Clint to keep going after Coulson's death, they move into the tower with the other Avengers, and Clint bonds with Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Colorblind](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0s7ycdUcHk) by Counting Crows.

Natasha takes care of him for those first few horrific days. He’s incapable of anything more than sleeping or staring blankly into space. He thinks he cries too, when he’s alone, but he doesn’t remember. He has no desire to move from the bed unless he absolutely needs to. His mind is stuck in a constant loop. If he had been better, he thinks, if he hadn’t gotten himself compromised, if he had avoided Loki and stayed hidden…if he had been a smarter, faster agent he could have avoided being brainwashed. He could have been on the Helicarrier with Coulson. He could have backed him up. If Clint had been there, Loki wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on Coulson like that. His mind sticks on _ifs_ , and he dreams of an endless ocean of shimmering blue that rises up and carries him under with no resistance. On the fourth day, Natasha wakes him up by plugging her iPod into her speakers and blasting _Carry On Wayward Son_ at full volume. “Get up!” she barks at him from the door. When he just hunches further into the cocoon of blankets, she throws her shoe at him. It hits him in the back of the head, and the pain is sharp. He sits up and glares at her.

“What the hell?" 

She pulls off her other shoe and glares right back at him. “Get up,” she growls, and throws it. He only just catches it, and she looks around for something else to throw. 

“You’re just gonna chuck stuff at me till I move?” he snaps. She grabs a hairbrush and an empty picture frame. 

“If that’s what it takes,” she throws them. He deflects the hairbrush, but the sharp corner of the picture frame hits his shoulder and he hisses. “Get up,” Natasha says threateningly, and he flings back the covers, suddenly burning with anger. As soon as he comes close, she punches him in the stomach, and he staggers back, shocked. 

“What the fuck?” he gasps, doubling over slightly. Natasha’s punches are not a laughing matter. 

“I need you!” she shouts at him, angrier than he’s ever seen her. “I need you to get it together! He was my friend too!” she launches another punch at him, but he smacks it aside. She keeps coming, and when he tries to dodge and duck instead of retaliating, she kicks him in the face.

“ _Masquerading as a man with a reason_ ,” sing the speakers, “ _my charade is the event of the season_.” 

“Fine!” he snarls, and starts fighting back. She’s not on her best form, but neither is he. He picks her up and drops her on top of a chest of drawers that breaks under the weight. She picks up one of the pieces of wood and smashes it over his shoulders, and they proceed to break everything in the room. 

“You,” she grunts, absorbing a punch to the chest and picking up a small vase to throw at him, “are _not_ ,” it smashes against his back as he runs into the kitchen and grabs a chair to keep her at bay with, “the only one,” she grabs it when he thrusts it at her, and between the two of them it breaks up into pieces, “who’s lost someone!” 

“I know!” he bellows, dropping her to the floor with a well-aimed kick that takes her legs out from under her. 

She launches herself at him and the tackle drives him into the table, which collapses under him with a splintering sound and a bang. She crawls up till she’s on eye level with him and punches him in the face, just hard enough to snap his head around with the force. “Then start acting like it,” she hisses. 

They stop, both breathing heavily. For a moment Clint thinks she’s about to kiss him, but then she pushes herself away and offers him a hand. He lets her pull him up, and shudders when she hugs him. She’s right – he’s been selfish, too wrapped up in his own misery to accept that Natasha’s hurting as well. She’s better than he is. “I’m sorry,” he manages to say into her hair. “Nat, I’m sorry.” She’s so much stronger than anyone else. 

She squeezes him tight and then lets go. “Get dressed,” she tells him shortly, but her eyes aren’t hard like they were a moment ago. “We’re going out.” 

“Where?” he asks as she brushes herself down and picks her way through the wreckage to the door. 

“Just out,” she replies. 

They walk down the road. Natasha laces her arm through his and steers him, which he’s grateful for. Everything seems so sharp and crisp. He does a double take when he sees a page of newspaper in the gutter with the ruined Stark Tower on the front. The world knows what happened in New York. A person walks past on the other side of the street, and Clint stares at him and thinks of Coulson. None of the people reading the headline stories about New York would know about Coulson. They wouldn’t know that he had ever existed, let alone that he had died. 

“Keep it together,” Natasha murmurs. They make it to a pond, where she sits him down on a bench and sits next to him, pressed up along his side so that he knows she’s there even when he closes his eyes. 

“Natasha?” 

“Yes?” 

“When Loki was on the Helicarrier, did anyone talk to him?” 

“Fury spoke to him after we brought him on board. I approached him later to get information.” 

“Did you get it?” 

“I did.” 

He smiles, and the action feels strange and out of place on his lips. There’s no humour or happiness in it. It’s just a reaction. “How did the exchange go?” 

“You want me to tell you everything?” 

“Yes, please.” 

She takes a deep breath and pushes against him firmly before she starts. “You were my angle. I told Loki that I didn’t care if he won – I just wanted to know what he was going to do with you. He asked if we were in love. I told him I owed you a debt. He asked me to explain, so I told him that you had been sent to kill me, and you recruited me instead, by extension saving my life. He was…amused that I was bargaining for one man when the stakes were so much higher. He made a pretty speech. Told me he’d make you kill me nice and slow, and that he’d release your mind at the end so that you would know what you had done. And only then would he kill you. I turned my back, told him he was a monster. He told me we’d brought the monster.” 

“Bruce,” Clint says automatically, and she nods. 

“I thanked him for his co-operation, and then I left. That’s it.” 

 _That’s it._ Clint thinks of how it could have gone, and feels his stomach churn. He only has time to turn away before he’s retching up the bread and ham Natasha forced him to eat the night before. The knowledge runs through his head, sure as anything he’s ever known. He was only useful to Loki while he was working against the odds. Had he succeeded and conquered the world, he would have had ample time to dispose of him in whatever way he deemed fit. Clint has no doubt that Loki would have made him kill Natasha. He would have had to cripple her himself first, because she had shown already that she could beat him while he was under Loki’s control, but once she was down… 

Clint heaves again, and Natasha’s hand presses against his spine, solid and reassuring. He would have killed her, he thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut as his stomach twists over and over. He would have held her down, eyes clouded in blue, and cut her into ribbons. He would have loosed arrows at her limbs and burned off the rest of her hair for Loki’s amusement. He would have put out her eyes and flogged her to death. God, he thinks, he would have raped her if Loki had ordered him to. His throat burns and he feels a tear roll down his cheek. 

“Clint,” she whispers behind him, and he shudders. “Here.” She presses a bottle of water to his knee, and he takes it without looking at her. He drains it dry, spitting half of it out onto the grass. When he sits up again, a thin sheen of sweat on his face, she runs a hand gently through his hair. “You didn’t hurt me,” she tells him, and he exhales heavily and leans forward, hiding his face. “Clint, listen,” she puts a hand on his cheek and turns his face so that he looks at her. She meets his gaze steadily, as calm as if they were discussing knife throwing or different types of coffee. “You didn’t hurt me. What do you remember about our fight? When I knocked you out?” 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he manages to say. “It’s just a blur. I don’t remember anything clearly.” 

She smiles slightly. “I came up behind you, the way Woo likes to do, matching your steps. You heard me, obviously. You shot at me with your bow. And again a second later. You missed both times.” He opens his mouth, uncomprehending for a moment, and her smile widens.  “What’s special about you, Clint? What’s practically your catchphrase?” 

“I never miss,” he whispers, and she kisses his cheek. 

“You never miss,” she agrees. “But you missed me twice. And Fury told me you shot him down, but you didn’t hit him. You could have put a bullet in his head, but you put it in his vest instead. You missed Agent Hill as well when you were getting out of the Pegasus facility. Clint, when I was…” she hesitates and frowns slightly, the way she does when she talks about her past, “when I was under other people’s control, I never deviated from their plans. Not at all. Your mind wasn’t your own, and you still stopped yourself from killing me. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as stubborn as you.” 

He laughs, a humourless, broken sound, and she hugs him tight, letting him bury his face in her shoulder. She doesn’t tell him to move forward, and for that he will love her unconditionally for as long as he lives.

 

 

His bow is back in New York, but Clint can’t think about shooting or keeping in shape. Natasha still works out every day and does yoga in the evenings, and after a week she persuades him to come running with her. It feels good, the air in his face and the steady rhythm of his feet on the sidewalk. It turns out that in the destruction they wrought while they were fighting on the fourth day, his ancient mp3 player was broken – he thinks it was in the chest of drawers he threw Natasha on, but he isn’t sure, and either way, he sees it as an excuse to buy an iPod. While Natasha salutes the sun in the living room, he sits cross-legged on the couch and plays with his music library. 

One night he hears noises in the kitchen, and when he goes to look he sees Natasha singing along to _Roosterspur Bridge_ while she brews herself some tea, because Tori Amos is still her favourite, and he knows that she knows he’s there, and she ignores him and keeps singing anyway. 

He listens to the radio and gets _Video Games_ stuck in his head for three days straight. May comes to an end before he knows it, and he listens to Zac Brown and Jesse Clegg and tries not to think about the yawning hole in his life. A Coulson-shaped hole that gapes wide and ragged. He occasionally tries to put him down as just another life, one more body on his book because he could miss when he fired at Natasha, but apparently not when he fired at an engine, and dozens died because of that one arrow. Coulson’s just another SHIELD agent who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That technique works about as well as expected, which is to say it doesn't work at all. 

Clint wakes up from nightmares where Loki makes him kill Coulson, take the sceptre and drive it through Coulson’s gut or pluck an arrow from his quiver and stab it into his heart, close enough to feel it jump under his hand and see Coulson’s expression as he sinks to the floor and dies in Clint’s arms. He wakes screaming and shaking, and Natasha will come to him and put a glass of water next to his bed and stay with him if he asks her to. She doesn’t owe him anything, he thinks, not after this. She’s saving his life just as much as he saved hers, because when he thinks about leaving the safe house and re-joining SHIELD as an active agent without Coulson, it feels like he’s being ripped open. He thinks of walking past Coulson’s office door and not being able to walk in and pull books off the shelf, of going on missions without even a chance of hearing Coulson’s voice in his ear, calm and steady, and can’t take it. When he thinks of July eighth, he feels like crumpling to the floor and screaming, because he’d said he’d find Captain America bunting and a damn cake, and Coulson won’t ever have that now. 

Natasha tells him that Fury smeared blood on Coulson’s vintage (still unsigned) Captain America trading cards to give Tony and Steve that final push, and Clint can’t bring himself to speak for the rest of the evening. 

He dreams of Coulson dying, expression calm even then, and cries himself back to sleep. Sometimes he thinks it will be okay, like when he’s watching Natasha bend herself into impossible shapes, or when he goes to the shops and doesn’t want to scream at everyone because they’re not missing Coulson like he is. Sometimes, when he’s jogging with his headphones in, steady feet on the sidewalk, he breathes deep and thinks he’ll be able to move forward. But then it will blindside him out of nowhere – Coulson will never direct him in the field again, he never did get round to making Coulson watch _Men In Black_ , Coulson won’t be there for the next New Year’s party on the Helicarrier – and he doesn’t want to live in a world where he’ll never be able to call Coulson _Phil_ to his face again. 

One night in early June, he kisses Natasha, and they get as far as stripping to their underwear before he can’t take it and rolls away, dropping his head in his hands and sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, “I thought…but I…I can’t, I just can’t.” 

“It’s fine,” she says quietly, small hand on his shoulder. She’s always got his back, he thinks, and he feels like the lowest piece of shit. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else he can say, and she comes to sit next to him. Words sit heavy on his tongue, but he’s scared of saying them, even though he feels the truth of what he wants to say in everything he’s felt since Natasha told him Coulson had died. “I think,” he starts, so quiet he can barely hear himself, “I think I –” 

“I know,” she says softly, sadly, and he lifts his head to look at her. 

“You know?” 

She raises an eyebrow, but her smile softens the effect. “Of course I know.” 

He stares at his knees and thinks of the New Year’s party where he and Coulson had just watched the others kissing and not made any move to join the crowd. “Fuck,” he says, and his voice shakes. “ _Fuck_.” 

There’s no point in saying it out loud, he knows. Not if Natasha already knows, and it’s not like he’ll ever be able to tell Coulson now anyway. Coulson’s gone, and Clint will never be able to tell him anything ever again. 

 

 

When Fury gives them the choice, Clint’s the first to vote for the team to stick together.  His reasons are mixed up in his head, but when he says they shouldn’t split up, he means it. Their first official mission is working with Dr Foster and Darcy Lewis to contact Asgard, but everyone knows that it’s really a mission for Tony and Bruce. They end up all moving into Stark Tower anyway, which is mostly fixed up now apart from the letters on the front. Only the ‘A’ remains, and if it hasn’t been fixed yet, Clint doubts that it will be. “Intentional?” he nudges Natasha and looks up at it as they approach. 

She shrugs. “Perhaps.” 

Clint watches Tony as he shows them around (with no small amount of bragging involved), and watches Steve and Bruce as well, who have already spent a lot of time there. He can tell by the way they move that they’re already comfortable in the environment, especially Bruce, who had been so tense and skittish in the SHIELD base, but is relaxed and at ease here. Clint thinks of where Natasha found him, hiding in a shack in India, and thinks _Laugh, I Nearly Died_. Steve laughs at Tony, and Bruce shoots him fond looks, and Clint begins to think that for all his ‘go it alone’ bluster, Tony Stark actually craves company. 

When Tony shows them the underground firing range, already outfitted with archery-friendly targets and an impressive array of knives and guns for Natasha, his suspicions are confirmed. He looks at Tony, leaning against the entrance and looking outwardly smug and confident, and sees the way Tony tracks their movements, judging their responses to his efforts. Their eyes meet, and Clint can’t help grinning, and Tony grins back, pleased as punch. 

“You didn’t mention he was needy,” he tells Natasha later as they walk to their new bedrooms (which are bigger than any bedrooms Clint has ever slept in in his life). 

She shrugs and smirks. “I thought I’d let you figure it out for yourself.” 

“He really wants this to work, doesn’t he?” 

She kisses his cheek and leaves him at his door. “Don’t you?” 

He feels tiny in the massive bed, but he has a spectacular view. Tony has the top floor, but he and Natasha are only a floor below. The detail doesn’t escape him – Tony knows he likes to have eyes up high, and he knows that Clint and Natasha like to stick close to each other. He gazes out over the New York skyline and thinks of the view from the Helicarrier windows. He thinks of Coulson, and how he’ll never see Captain America in the field, or Clint and Natasha work with a whole team, not just each other. 

The bed is huge, and Clint feels like he’s drowning in it. 

 

 

He memorises the layout of the tower, where they can go and where they’re not meant to. They aren’t supposed to go down to the offices while Stark’s employees are there, but Clint does anyway, dressing in a neat shirt and pants, scoping out the area. Tony bitches at him, but when Clint challenges him to find evidence of him being down there – without Jarvis helping him with facial recognition – he scowls, and Clint laughs because needling Tony is becoming something of a game. He carves out a few hiding spaces where no one will find him (except maybe Natasha), and spends most of his time training. It’s been over a month since he shot his bow, and he makes up for it by spending at least six hours a day on the range. 

He finds the wires for the speakers that are in every room in the house (he leaves those alone, because Tony is very firm about Jarvis being able to speak to everyone if the need arises) during his explorations of the air vents and crawlspaces. He finds out what time Tony goes to the gym and smiles as he fixes the system to play _Primadonna_ at full volume. Tony yells at the walls for about thirty seconds before he just throws his hands up and goes with it. Clint sees him start to adjust his rhythm subconsciously to the lyrics and laughs silently. “And I’m sad to the core core core, every day is a chore chore chore. When you give, I want more more more, I wanna be adored. ‘Cause I’m a primadonna girl…” 

He tries not to think about Coulson too much, but it’s so much harder than he’d thought it could ever be. It’s like his brain is wired to connect everything to Coulson, and sometimes he wakes up from the nightmares that have becomes so much more frequent (he used to get very few for someone in a job like his) and feels like he’s spinning off into space. He can never get back to sleep afterwards, so he usually goes to the kitchen, and then down to the range, no matter how early it is. 

He disables the cameras in his bedroom, shrugging it off when Tony complains about his tech being tampered with. He’s still getting used to Jarvis, and he is definitely uncomfortable with the possibility of Tony being able to check up on him whenever he likes. It might be his tower, but Clint enjoys finding Jarvis’ blind spots. It becomes another sort of game for him, because Tony’s made the tower with plenty of little hiding spaces and secret routes in and out. Clint supposes it’s because Tony’s always had to think about people trying to kill or kidnap him. It must be second nature by now, he reasons as he crawls through the ceiling beneath the floor of his own bedroom. Bruce and Steve have the floor below him and Natasha, and he knows that Bruce spends most of his time in the lab he and Tony practically live in these days. 

Steve’s more intriguing. Clint can’t help being reminded of Coulson whenever Steve is there, and he watches him a little more intently than he does the others. He catches himself making mental notes about the captain for Coulson, and tries to convince himself he’s not cracking up by trying to notice the same things about the others as well. 

Steve loves fruit, especially the ones he can crunch. He grins whenever he’s about to take the first bite of an apple, and he enjoys eating pears when they’re barely ripe. He checks up on them whenever he thinks they’re not looking, and makes it a point to know where everyone is at any given time. He likes interacting with Jarvis more than anyone except Tony, and he adores movies. He keeps a notebook with an elastic band around it that he draws in. Clint thinks he writes in it as well, but he isn’t sure. He could have sneaked into Steve’s room to read it a dozen times over (the guy hardly ever locks his door), but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. It’s not that Steve’s technically the team leader, or even the fact that he’s Captain America, the country’s most beloved superhero. It’s just that he’s so damn likeable. Clint knows he would feel guilty about going through his personal belongings like that. 

It’s so different to the life he’s become used to. There are no solo missions anymore. According to Agent Thompson, their temporary liaison with SHIELD, they will be given missions in the future, but for now their role is purely as a response team and advisors. Clint honestly has no idea what to make of that (he wishes Coulson could explain it to him), but it’s nothing like any role he’s ever had before. He doesn’t know what he’s training for anymore, so he trains harder in case they get another situation like the Chitauri. Having a team of superhumans ready seems like tempting fate to him, and he knows he has something to prove. 

Natasha belongs. She fits in anywhere she wants to, and she’s proved herself more than capable. She’s also got abilities no other person does – Clint knows she had enhancing drugs pumped into her at a young age; steroids and the like. She can move her body in impossible ways, and her other skills are too numerous to fit into the allotted space on a SHIELD cover file. Steve is Captain America. Enough said. Thor is a god, and even though he isn’t there, they speak of him often. Tony is rich beyond imagining, and built a suit with the most advanced weaponry in the world in it. Bruce is the most normal person on the team, but then he also keeps the Hulk under his skin, and he understands everything that comes out of Tony’s mouth. 

Clint’s just an agent with a bow and above-average aim. So he practises until his arms ache and his fingers bleed, and then he practises some more. He walks silently and sneaks up on people, and he watches his teammates like a hawk (no pun intended) whenever they happen to come under his gaze. He gets to know their habits, their likes and dislikes, and he tries desperately to stop linking everything back to Coulson. 

It doesn't work, and after waking up from yet another nightmare, he flings back the sheets of his gargantuan bed and changes into tracksuit bottoms and an old SHIELD t-shirt. When he goes downstairs, he realises immediately that he’s not alone, but he doesn’t know it’s Steve until he’s almost in the living room and he hears the sound of pencil on paper. 

“Hey,” he says as he goes in, and Steve looks around at him from the couch and raises his eyebrows. 

“Hi. What’re you doing up?” 

Clint goes to the fridge and gets the cheese out. “Eating. You?” 

“Nothing much.” 

Clint doesn’t think Steve realises what pictures drawn by Captain America would be worth, and he doesn’t want to tell him. “Mind company?” 

“Not at all,” Steve actually sounds quite pleased at the prospect, and Clint turns his back so that Steve won’t have to see his poor attempt at a smile. He’s not up to expressions of happiness so soon after a nightmare. “What’re you making?” 

“Grilled cheese sandwich. Want one?” 

“If you’re making three,” Steve sounds hopeful, and Clint’s lips twitch. 

“Sure thing.” One for him and two for Steve, who has double, triple, and quadruple helpings of everything because of his insane metabolism. He eats more than the rest of them combined, and still puts on no weight at all. He makes four, because he knows Steve will polish off three with no problems, and when he carries them over Steve lights up like a Christmas tree. 

“Thank you.” 

“No problem,” Clint shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich as Steve tucks into his. “All we need now is the sun and a couple of beers.” 

“I’ll stick to the soda,” Steve smiles slightly, and Clint frowns. 

“You teetotal?” 

“Teetotal?” 

“Yeah, you know – no alcohol.”

“Oh,” Steve takes a massive bite and chews quickly. “No,” he says when he’s swallowed. “But there wouldn’t really be any point. I can’t get drunk. I can still enjoy the taste, but the soda these days is real nice, so I’d probably stick to that.” 

“You can’t get drunk?” Clint frowns and tries to remember if he’s ever seen Steve with a beer when they watch movies together or just happen to be together in the same room in the evening. He can’t recall Steve having anything but water, soda, or juice. 

“No,” Steve takes another huge bite. “Side-effect of the serum,” he explains. “My metabolism’s just too fast to soak anything up.” 

“Wow,” Clint stares at the table. “That sucks.” 

“It’s not that bad,” Steve shrugs, and Clint raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Seriously?” 

Steve sighs and shakes his head. “No. It does…suck.” He’s still getting used to modern colloquiums. Clint finishes off his sandwich and leans back on the couch. 

“I guess there’re always things I can’t pick up from watching people.” 

“What do you mean?” Steve looks at him curiously and Clint shrugs. 

“I read people. Study them, y’know? Makes it easier to target someone if you understand them, so I observe the people around me pretty intensely. It’s just a habit by now.” 

“How long have you needed to do that? I mean,” Steve pauses and rephrases, “how long have you been working for SHIELD?” 

“Since 2000, so about twelve years now. But I was already a sniper before that.” 

“In the army?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I didn’t know that.” Steve looks forward and picks up his next sandwich with a sigh. “There’s still so much I don’t know. About everything, I mean, not just about you guys.” 

“Like what?” 

“Oh, everything,” Steve waves a hand at the floor-to-ceiling windows that give a magnificent view of Manhattan. “The modern world and all that. There’s so much to take in. I have so much to remember. It gets a bit much sometimes, I guess.” 

“Do you miss your old life?” Clint asks bluntly, without thinking. He decides after he’s said it not to be embarrassed about blurting out such a personal question. Steve doesn’t seem to be offended or upset or anything, so he figures it’s okay. The captain just keeps eating his sandwich. 

“I miss my friends,” he says after a while, soft and quiet. “I miss…I miss everything about it. This time is amazing, don’t get me wrong. It’s everything Howard used to ramble about and more, and I still have a hard time getting it through my head sometimes that Tony is his son. And you're all older than me. I know I’m technically over ninety, but I still feel twenty-six. It’s strange, I guess. Exciting, sure, but still strange. I miss things the way they were.” He sighs and finishes off his second sandwich, reaching for the next one. “Sorry to dump all that on you. You were probably looking for a shorter answer.” 

“Nah,” Clint tilts his head back onto the cushions and stares at the ceiling. “It was a pretty loaded question. It’s pretty impressive that you’ve dealt as well as you have, to be honest. Most people would’ve freaked out or killed themselves or something by now.” He frowns and curses mentally. “That came out a bit blunter than I intended.” 

“It’s fine,” Steve says. “I appreciate the honesty.” 

They fall silent. Clint bites his tongue and thinks of the question he wants desperately to ask, but doesn’t know how to. He’s fine with asking Steve about his old life, but he really doesn’t want to bring up his own fragile mental state. But he figures that Steve’s down here at half three in the morning eating grilled cheese sandwiches and scribbling in a notebook that he won’t let anyone see, so maybe their leader isn’t exactly a paragon of mental stability himself. He dances back and forth in his mind, not sure whether to open his mouth or not. 

Steve finishes his last sandwich and looks at him. “Whatever it is you want to say, just say it. The tension is killing me.” 

Clint stares at him. “How do you know I want to say something?” 

Steve shrugs with one shoulder. “Intuition? Whatever it is, you can just say it. It’s fine.” 

Clint frowns and leans his elbows on his knees, looking at the table instead of Steve. He’s quiet for a long moment before he actually gets up the guts to speak, and it isn’t the question he wants to ask, but it’s close. “Is it difficult? Living here in this time, I mean? When everyone you knew…” 

“Is dead?” Steve finishes quietly for him, and Clint drops his head and sighs. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve doesn’t reply immediately, and when he does his words are slow and measured. “It’s…it’s impossibly difficult. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but…” he sighs. “I can’t go back. And I think sometimes that maybe, even if I could…I wouldn’t. I don’t know. Sometimes I can’t stand it; sometimes I think that it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. And I don’t know which one is better. I mean…I died, or as good as, and the world went on. They didn’t need me, not really. Everyone moved on. They _lived_. Full, long lives.” He lapses into silence, and Clint stares at his hands, loosely clasped in front of him. He figures out exactly how to phrase his question before he asks it, and he can’t look away from his fingers as he does so. 

“Cap?” his voice comes out much smaller than he’d intended. 

“Yeah?” 

The hell with it. Spit it out, Clint. “You had a girl, right? Back then?” 

Steve’s voice is even quieter when he replies. “Yeah. Peggy.” 

“How do you deal with the fact that she’s dead? That…that you’ll never get to see her again?” Clint looks at Steve, who looks back, two lines between his eyes. Clint looks away first, blinking away the horrifying threat of tears. 

“It was hard at first,” Steve says, so quietly that Clint can barely hear him. “But I found out what happened to her as soon as I could, and that made it easier. She moved forward in her life. She was the strongest woman I ever knew, and I know she lived an incredible life.” Clint hears him look at him and hears him sigh. “She wasn’t…I mean, she meant so much to me, but…Bucky’s…it’s harder to think of Bucky.” 

Clint frowns and glances at him. He’s never heard of this Bucky guy before. “Bucky?” 

“My best friend,” Steve doesn’t look at him. “Sergeant James Barnes formerly of the one-oh-seventh, then of the Howling Commandos. He died.” Clint knows who he’s talking about now – he remembers Coulson talking about each of the Howling Commandos. Steve’s talking faster now, like he thinks it’ll hurt less, like pulling a band-aid off quickly. “Only a couple of days before I crashed the plane, we were on a mission to capture this scientist. We had to drop onto a moving train that was high up a mountain. There was an accident after we got in, and Bucky fell. I couldn’t get there in time…and he died. That’s harder.” He rubs his eyes with his thumbs and then runs them through his hair with a sigh. “Peggy lived and went on and helped to found SHIELD. I was frozen and woke up sixty-seven years in the future. Bucky fell from a moving train hundreds of feet above the ground in 1945 and I’ll never see him again. His life ended that day, and that’s the hardest thing to deal with. I mean, I’ll never see Peggy again either, or any of the others, but at least they survived. At least Peggy was okay.” 

“And at least she knew,” Clint says without thinking, and forces himself not to flinch when Steve looks at him curiously. “I mean, you know,” he mumbles, trying to dig himself out of this hole, “at least you told her, right?” 

“Yeah,” Steve nods, “she knew.” He looks at Clint for a long moment. “Natasha told us not to tell you right away,” he says softly. “About Coulson, I mean. I’m sorry. If, y’know, you would’ve rather known.” 

“No,” Clint shakes his head, “she was right. I didn’t take it well when she told me. She made the right decision.” 

“You were close?” 

Clint rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I guess. He recruited me out of the army, and he put a lot of time into my career at SHIELD. He trusted my judgement.” And I never told him, goes unspoken. He never knew. I always thought I’d have more time. Clint stands up and takes the plates back to the kitchen, leaving them in the sink for the morning. “You staying up?” he asks. Steve looks around and nods. 

“I doubt I’ll get back to sleep now.” 

“Want to spar?” 

Steve cocks his head, interested. He’s fought with Tony in his Iron Man suit, and Clint knows that Natasha’s been testing him. If Thor was here, there’s no doubt about who Steve’s regular sparring partner would be, but he’s never set himself against Clint before. “Sure,” he says, smiling. “Now?” 

“No time like the present,” Clint shrugs, and leads the way down to the gym. 

“I should warn you,” Steve says awkwardly as they warm up, “I, um, lose sight of my limits sometimes. I don’t want to hurt you accidentally.” 

Clint nods slowly and thinks for a moment. “What’s your full strength like? If you punched someone normal, like me, square in the chest, what would happen?” 

Steve pulls a face and touches his toes. “I’d break ribs for sure.” 

“You ever tried?” 

“Um, not on my friends.” 

“What about on Natasha?” 

Steve laughs and straightens up. “I can barely touch her. She’s damn fast, even for me.” 

“And she spars with me at full strength,” Clint gives Steve a measuring look. “Try not to hold back so much, okay?” 

“Are you sure?” Steve frowns. 

“Yeah. Go for it. Let’s see what you can do.” 

Clint’s had the best training SHIELD can offer, and he’s picked up plenty in his own travels. He’s got speed, agility, flexibility, and he can throw a mean punch. Steve, however, is Captain America the super soldier. Clint dances backwards from him and lunges around him, getting the measure of his speed and reflexes, which are _fast_. Steve’s bulk is very misleading in that respect, but Clint enjoys the challenge. It takes his mind off their conversation upstairs. 

“Hit me,” he taunts, dodging again and getting behind Steve to smack him in the back of the head. “Come on, man, I know you’re faster than this.” 

Steve snorts and ducks Clint’s next punch, his own fist whipping out almost too fast for Clint to counter it. The deflection makes his wrist ring, and he leaps back a couple of steps and waits for Steve to charge him. Steve is very forward-focused. It’s definitely an army thing – he’s aware of his surroundings, but he puts most of his focus on the enemy right in front of him. Clint’s more used to splintering his gaze in lots of directions and accounting for every little detail in the environment. Anything can be a weapon, after all. Anything can become part of the battlefield. There are low rafters above their heads where the lights don’t penetrate the shadows, and when Steve charges, Clint feigns to the side. Steve grabs, but Clint puts his hands on Steve’s shoulders and brings his knees up to kick him down and away. While Steve stumbles, Clint leaps up into the rafters. 

“Is that cheating?” Steve laughs, not even out of breath. Damn serum. Clint calms his breathing and stays absolutely still, daring Steve to come up and fight him here, out of his comfort zone. Steve’s the kind of guy who likes to have his feet solidly on the ground. Clint’s more at home on shifting sands. Adaption is one of his specialities, and he _loves_ being up high. The rafters above the gym remind him of the circus tent, and he grins in the darkness, waiting for Steve to decide. “Alright,” Steve says finally, jumping up to grab a rafter and hauling himself up into the shadows. “You asked for it.” 

Clint keeps absolutely still as Steve squints into the dark. He _feels_ it when Steve sees him, and he jumps out of the way as Steve starts to come over. He’s a little wobbly on the beams, and Clint’s got the advantage on him. He runs at full speed over the metal and kicks Steve in the chest, swinging out of the way before Steve can retaliate. 

“This is definitely cheating,” Steve grins and steadies himself, getting his bearings. 

“Nah,” Clint hides behind a pillar. “This is me luring you out of your comfort zone. You want back into it, you’ll have to get me down first.” 

“You’re on,” Steve tests the strength of the bar under him, and starts to run. He’s adaptable too, Clint sees, but he’s still not as fast as he was below. They fight in short bursts, hard and brutal. Clint will surprise Steve by swinging in from nowhere and taking out his feet or launching himself at Steve from behind, Steve will recover and fight back as hard as he can before Clint disappears again. “How come you’re so good at this?” he asks, and Clint’s glad to note that he’s a little out of breath now. 

“Rafters and rooftops, man,” Clint swings up at Steve from below and almost kicks him back down into the gym. “Best place to spy from.” He wheezes as one of Steve’s punches connects, and he drops down and swings away to a safe distance. Getting hit by Steve is like getting hit by a sack of bricks. “Circus training probably didn’t hurt either.” 

“You were in the circus?” Steve looks around, and Clint sees the edge of his delighted grin. 

“Uh huh.” 

“You need to tell me about that some time.” 

“Sure thing.” 

Clint falls silent and skulks around behind Steve, spiralling closer and closer. He curses mentally when Steve decides to stop playing along and drops back onto the floor of the gym, sitting down comfortably and closing his eyes. Listening for him, Clint understands immediately. Well that’s fine. He knows how to be silent. He creeps around up in the rafters for a few minutes, keeping a close eye on Steve to judge how much he can hear. Steve hears him only when Clint wants him to know where he is, even with his enhanced hearing. Clint smiles and inches closer until he’s right over Steve’s head. Suspending himself between two beams, he dangles his legs down into the open space and holds for a moment. When he’s sure Steve’s oblivious, he swings himself forward and tackles the captain legs-first. Steve yells in surprise, but reacts automatically, rolling Clint over and off him and bodyslamming him before he can get away again. 

“Got you!” he grins. Clint stills, and Steve relaxes his grip slightly. Amateur mistake, he thinks, and smacks his head backwards into Steve’s, who lets go of him with a howl. His nose is bleeding, but Clint only notes that distantly as he sweeps Steve’s legs out from under him and jabs a knuckle into a nerve cluster at the base of Steve’s back to keep him down a little longer. Steve shakes it off and punches Clint in the side of the head hard enough to make him see stars. Before he really knows what’s happening, gravity shifts, and suddenly he’s on his back with Steve lying over him, an arm over his neck and blood dripping down his face. “Ow?” he says, and frowns like that’s not what he meant to say. Clint laughs and pulls a face as blood falls from Steve’s nose onto his neck. 

“Ow,” he agrees, sitting up as Steve sits back. “Good recovery.” 

“Thanks,” Steve tilts his head back and tries to stem the steady dripping. “Good silence. You really caught me by surprise there. That a SHIELD thing? You and Natasha are the only ones who can sneak up on me.” 

“It’s part of our training,” Clint nods. “Silent movement is kind of extremely necessary in our line of work.” 

“Spying?” 

“And assassination.” He raises his eyebrows at Steve’s look of surprise. “What, no one told you we kill people?” 

Steve shrugs and gets to his feet, a long red line down the front of his shirt. “Not really. I knew you had, but who here hasn’t, you know? I didn’t know it was actually your job.” 

“More espionage and intelligence gathering at the higher levels, I’ll grant you,” Clint says conversationally, leading the way to the showers so that he can get a proper look at Steve’s nose (what would Coulson have said if he’d broken Captain America’s nose?). “But sometimes people need to be taken out of the equation.” 

They leave the gym at twenty to five and find Bruce in the kitchen, cleaning up their plates from earlier. Clint smiles when Steve apologises and tries to take over, and Bruce firmly pushes him away and then sits him down on the couch to take a proper look at his nose. They end up watching an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer that’s on TV. Bruce tells them that he’s only seen some of it, but he’s watched Firefly, and at some point they all need to watch that because apparently it’s the best thing to happen since the discovery of penicillin or something. When Thor gets back, they agree. 

They watch more Buffy (Jarvis can get anything they ask for) as the sky lightens, and Natasha wakes up and joins them in the middle of an episode, a bowl of fruit salad in her lap. She leans against Clint, and it’s domestic and comfortable, and he snags a grape from her bowl and thinks that it’s nothing like anything he’s ever had before. The realisation hits him like one of Steve’s punches, and he nearly groans out loud in front of everyone. It’s as close as he can get to being back at SHIELD where he’s always felt most comfortable, but of course he voted for this barely-functioning team instead, even though he’s always been more of a solo player. Of course he did, because going back to his job at SHIELD without Coulson would be more painful than he would be able to cope with. 

Natasha looks up at him, rolls her eyes (not unsympathetically), and gives him the rest of her fruit.

 

 

Clint leaves the tower on the eighth of July and doesn’t come back until the next morning. No one asks him where he went or what he did, so he knows that Natasha told them not to bug him. He doesn’t want to tell them that he walked until he was lost and then walked some more, trying in vain to stop feeling miserable. When he gets back he spends four hours solid shooting on the range. He breaks for a snack, and spends another four hours down there before Tony comes down to watch. 

“I’m going to design a new course for you,” he decides loudly so that Clint will hear him. Clint wipes sweat off his forehead and frowns, going to retrieve his arrows. 

“What d’you mean?” 

“I mean you’re destroying this one,” Tony gestures to the shredded targets, “so it’s obviously too easy. It’ll be a piece of cake to design something more challenging. Bruce can handle the Bifröst project for a few hours.” 

“That’s all it’ll take?” 

Tony grins. “Sure. I’m a genius, remember? Might take a look at some new arrows too. You ever considered acid?” 

“I asked R&D about it once,” Clint comes back and starts shooting again. His arms and shoulders are killing him, but they don’t shake. “They said it’d be too unstable.” 

Tony snorts. “SHIELD. Honestly. We’ll fix you up with something cool.” 

“We?” 

“Bruce is probably the go-to guy for acid,” Tony explains, “but I’ve been thinking about electric shocks.” 

Clint hits every single target and lowers his bow before he smiles tiredly at Tony. “Sure. That sounds good.” 

“Great,” Tony comes over and slaps his shoulder. “Come on. We’re eating.” 

“We?” 

“Steve’s decided we need communal meals.” 

Clint goes to get his arrows. “Who cooked?” 

“No idea. I’m not allowed in the kitchen.” 

“Do I want to know why?” 

“You really don’t. And by the way, I know you’ve been in the crawlspaces, and you need to stop doing that.” 

“Prove it.” 

“That’s not the point!” Tony shouts, and Clint grins. “I know you’ve been in there, and it’s creepy, and you need to stop, because if you drop down from the ceiling in front of Bruce and he Hulks out, you’ll be paying for the damage.”


	10. This Is A Call To The Colour Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are kidnappings, team bonding via the medium of battles, team bonding via the medium of drinking, and a lot of music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Bigger Than My Body](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQ5wTHM1zkw) by John Mayer.

When the connection to Asgard is stabilised, Thor returns and goes straight for Jane Foster, who’s been muttering under her breath for _days_ about how much trouble Thor’s going to be in when he gets back. He sweeps her off her feet, literally, and Bruce is the one who clears his throat awkwardly after a minute to try and get their attention. It has no effect, so Darcy yells at them. “Hey! PDA alert! What happened to ripping him a new one?” 

“Oh!” Jane breaks away, red-faced, and Clint has to laugh. “Um, sorry! Could you put me down, Thor?” 

“Of course, Jane,” the god of thunder is beaming fit to burst, and he places her feet on the floor so tenderly that Clint gets the urge to look away. “My friends!” he turns to them and grins. “I am glad to return!” 

“Welcome back, big guy,” Tony steps forward and grins. “Good to have you here.” 

Thor goes back to Asgard a couple of times, but moves in properly after a couple of weeks, much to everyone’s pleasure. After that, it feels like everything slots into place. They had been missing Thor more than they realised – he evens the numbers, bridges the occasionally tense gap between Tony and Steve, and his presence is incredibly calming. The effect is especially pronounced in Bruce, Clint notices immediately. If Thor’s in the room, Bruce visibly relaxes. It’s good to have someone there who can match the Hulk for strength, Clint understands, and Steve spends a lot of time with Thor in the gym, glad to be able to use his full strength at last. 

Clint and Natasha know immediately that it’s a test when they’re told that the Avengers need to mobilise to combat a Doombot attack on New York. Fury could have shut it down and they both know it, but he obviously decided to let the attack happen instead. It’s a ploy to remind the public that there are still threats that they need the Avengers to protect them from. It’s a low blow, but it works, and the publicity is huge. Clint blames the extra publicity for Tony getting kidnapped. 

The punchline is that it’s AIM who have taken him, and Clint sits down with everyone and tells them everything useful he knows about the organisation. It’s unusual for the focus to be so directly on him, but he does his job. He explains how AIM works, with many different cells and subsections all reporting back to the Scientist Supreme. Part of what they do involves kidnapping brilliant scientists and forcing them to work for them. Tony Stark, as one of the smartest scientists and engineers in the world, would of course be right at the top of their wanted list. It’s more surprising that they haven’t tried to get him before this, but Clint refrains from saying that because Bruce looks too pale, and Thor looks like he’s about to break something. And when Thor breaks things, the damage is usually very expensive. 

They search, of course, but none of them find anything. It’s extremely disheartening, and they’re all beginning to panic a bit when they come back to the tower. In the early hours of the morning, Jarvis wakes them up and tells them that Bruce has found something. Tony’s trying to contact them, he explains, but there’s nothing the rest of them can do. Natasha’s just as good with computers, but Bruce has had more experience working with Jarvis and Tony’s personal systems, but there’s nothing anyone else can do to help. 

Clint waits in the living room with Thor and Steve, trying not to think of anything in particular. His mind turns to Loki (locked safely away in Asgard, never getting out in their lifetimes, far away, far away) and the sceptre. The blade on the end of it, touching his chest so gently. The razor sharp tip of it slicing through Coulson’s flesh like a knife through butter. Tony’s arc reactor makes him so vulnerable without the suit. None of them ever say a word about it, but they all know it. Tony and Bruce are the weakest of them without their alter-egos, and Tony’s weaker in many respects because of the hole in his chest. It would be so easy to use it to hurt him. Easier still to kill him. 

Clint knows they won’t – AIM will want Tony alive to pick his brain – but it doesn’t make it easier. Bruce snaps at Steve when he comes out to get coffee for him and Natasha, and everyone flinches. Bruce is usually so calm and collected. Clint thinks of how much time he spends with Tony, and turns it over in his mind until he understands – Tony is Bruce’s barrier and connection to the rest of them, and the rest of the world. According to Natasha, Tony is the one who first approached Bruce with genuine enthusiasm after she recruited him. Tony’s the one who practically forced Bruce to move in with him. With Tony gone, Bruce is floundering. 

Finally, Tony manages to communicate something useful, and Clint pilots the quinjet as they follow the clues Bruce interprets for them. Tony’s caught before they get there, but Clint narrows down the options quickly. Thor flies out to take a look and tells them what he sees over the earpiece Tony had had to design for him specially (Thor attracts so much static electricity in battle that he has a tendency to short out anything electronic he touches). Montana’s mountain ranges hide at least three possible locations for an AIM facility, and with Natasha’s mastery of the weird extra technology Tony built into the quinjet, they figure out where it is. 

Clint lands and goes in first with Natasha. They take out five guards before they even enter the building, and Natasha’s the one who makes it a competition. “I’ve given you a head start,” she whispers over their private link, “let’s see what you can do with it.” He’s taken out three, she’s killed two, and he grins. 

“You’re on.” 

They infiltrate the facility with professional speed, taking down AIM lackeys left, right, and centre. Natasha steals the lead, but he claims a bonus because he gets into the command centre before she does. She slips in after him and slaps his shoulder before sitting down at the computer controls and frowning. “Okay, Cap – we’re in.” 

“Can you see Tony yet?” 

“Working on it.” She pulls up all the security footage, and Clint spots it on one of the screens. 

“There,” he points. Tony’s tied to a chair, head bowed, three men behind him and a man in a suit in front of him. He’s shirtless, and he flinches when one of the men touches his arc reactor. Clint narrows his eyes. “I can get there.” 

“Take the case,” Natasha says. “Cap, Tony’s being held in a cell five levels down. Hawkeye can get there and take them out, but they’ll need extracting.” 

“Okay,” Steve says. “Thor stays up high, wait for my word. Bruce waits until Thor drops, and then hulks out. I’m coming in now – by the time I get there, I want Hawkeye and Tony ready to go. You can keep your seat there, Black Widow?” 

“I can,” Natasha nods as Clint picks up Tony’s Mark V armour case. 

“Then let’s move. Go!” 

Clint goes. Natasha directs him and keeps him in the know. He takes the lead back easily as he fights his way down to Tony – he knocks out over ten AIM thugs and kills at least six. He kicks the bodies aside and moves forward. 

“Third door on the right,” Natasha tells him, and Clint goes in with the case in one hand and his gun in the other. He’s still a damn good shot. He kills the three men who had been crowding behind Tony, and shoots the guy in the suit in the knee. 

“He’s armed!” Tony yells. Clint kicks the case to him and ducks out of the door as five shots hit the frame. “Right around the corner!” Tony shouts. Clint crouches, sticks his gun around the corner and shoots up. There’s a scream, and he fires another to finish the job. “Okay,” Tony says. “He’s dead. Little help here?” 

“You okay?” Clint asks, pulling a knife out to slice the ropes securing Tony’s hands behind his back and his ankles to the legs of the chair. 

“Peachy,” Tony grunts. Clint gets a look at his chest and narrows his eyes. The skin around the arc reactor is red and raw, and there are a few first-degree burns on his shoulders and upper chest that look electrical. 

“You need medical attention.” 

“How about after we get out, huh?” Tony gets to his feet and kicks the case. The armour unfolds around him in smooth motions, and Tony sighs. “That’s better.” 

“Hawkeye,” Natasha says in his ear, “you’ve got a small army heading your way.” 

“Cap?” Clint asks. 

“On my way,” Steve grunts. 

“Anyone else feeling the need for a Hulk, raise their hands,” Tony says, lifting his hand. 

Clint nods. “Now would be a good time.” 

“Thor?” Steve asks. 

“I am ready,” Thor sounds like he’s smiling, and not in a good way. “Give the word.” 

“Grenade!” Natasha yells. Clint slams the door of Tony’s cell closed and gets his bow out as a blast shakes the corridor outside. 

“That’s the word!” Steve says. “Go, now!” 

“The Hulk is already there,” Thor laughs, and Clint curses as static screeches in his ear. 

“Did Thor just short out his earpiece again?” Tony asks. 

“Well, if you will give a small battery-powered device to the god of thunder…” Clint shrugs. “Natasha, how many guys between us and the exit?” 

“At least twenty.” There’s a gunshot, and she curses. “I’ve got people trying to break in on me.” 

“Thor, head for the Black Widow,” Steve orders. “Widow, do we have access to an intercom system?” 

“Thor can’t hear you,” Clint says quickly. 

“Okay,” Steve takes it in his stride. “Intercom?” 

“I can run it,” Natasha says. 

“Okay, tell Thor to head for you, tell Hulk to trash the upper levels – give these guys something to focus on.” 

“On it.” 

“Hawkeye, Iron Man, what’s your sitch?” 

“Boxed in,” Tony tells him, going to the door. “We could take them.” 

“We could not,” Clint says in a hard voice. “It’s a death trap out there, Iron Man isn’t at full strength, and I won’t be able to step back enough to get clear shots. There are too many.” 

“This is the Black Widow,” Natasha’s voice fills the corridor outside. “Hulk, can you hear me?” she pauses and then continues. “Okay. Hulk, smash up the facility’s top levels. Ladies and gentlemen associated and employed with AIM, I would advise a swift evacuation if you want to survive. Thor, take three lefts and then a right. I’ll wait. Widow out.” 

Clint grins, but it vanishes as the hostiles outside the cell start shooting at the door. 

“I’m bullet proof,” Tony says, the metallic edge to his voice almost covering up its breathless edge. 

“You’ve also been tortured.” Clint fits a tear gas arrow to the string and gets ready to fire. “Learn your limits, man.” 

“My limits are not even being tested,” Tony snarls, and Clint thinks _ooh_ , that touched a nerve. 

“Great,” he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even look at him. “Then you won’t mind opening the door and taking the rain of bullets they’ll unleash on you.” 

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Tony still sounds pissed, but he goes over to the door. 

“You got air filters on that thing?” 

“Are you even kidding me with that question?” 

“Just checking,” Clint pulls the string back and narrows his eyes. “Close the door the second the arrows are out there, okay? I’m going to fire three.” 

“Okay.” Tony straightens, and Clint crouches around the corner. 

“I’m going to shoot between your legs. Try not to move.” 

“Duly noted. You ready?” 

“Open it.” 

The racket makes Clint wish he had earplugs or something, but he shoots straight, and hears men scream as the corridor fills with thick white smoke. The shooting falters, and Clint rolls over to the other side of the door to fire an arrow down the other end of the corridor. He follows it up with another immediately afterwards, and Tony slams the door shut. Clint pulls a pair of goggles over his head and backs away from the door, where a bit of the gas has come through. “That should keep them occupied,” he says. “Cap?” 

“Hawkeye?” 

“Don’t try coming down our end for a while – I’ve gassed the place.” 

“Roger that.” 

“How’re things up top?” 

“Hulk’s tearing the place to shreds,” Natasha sounds a little worried. “I think he’s looking for Tony.” 

“What’ve we got directly above us?” Tony asks. The men outside start ramming the door. Clint gets out a putty arrow and keeps his eyes on the hinges. 

“Empty room. Looks like storage, but there’s nothing in there at the moment.” 

“Good. Stand back, Katniss, I’m blasting us out of here.” 

“Who the hell is Katniss?” Clint asks, putting his back to the wall and keeping his arrow trained on the door. Tony stands in the middle of the room and starts blasting the stone ceiling with his repulsors. 

“From The Hunger Games? Do you even read books?” 

“You’re telling me _you_ have the time?” the hinges start to buckle, and Clint pulls the arrow back a little. “Faster, please.” 

“Audiobooks,” Tony says, taking chunks out of the stone. “Great for long flights. Okay – ready?” 

Clint slips the arrow back in his quiver and runs over. “Go.” Tony boosts him up into the room above and follows him just as the door in the cell gives. Clint fires another tear gas arrow into the cell from the hole Tony blasted, as much to cover their escape as hurt them. He can’t help a grin when they start to scream though. 

“Directions?” he asks. 

“Cap’s on his way to you,” Natasha tells them, “and so is the Hulk. Thor’s holding off the guys on my back.” 

“Let’s go,” Tony says, and Clint puts a normal arrow to his string. The Hulk finds them first. They only get a moment’s warning from Natasha before the ceiling above them is ripped away and the Hulk is suddenly right there, bigger than Clint’s seen him before. Tony puts a hand out behind him, and Clint steps back into the shadows. Everyone knows the Hulk likes Tony best. “Howdy, big guy,” Tony yells, and the Hulk roars, literally a foot from Tony’s face. Tony doesn’t even flinch, and Clint taps out the rhythm needed to bring a tranq arrow to the front of his quiver. 

“Hulk!” the Hulk bellows, and Tony nods like they’re discussing the weather. 

“Okay, howdy, Hulk, I can get with that,” he flips back his faceplate, and Clint can hear the grin in his voice. “You good?” 

“Iron Man safe?” Clint raises his eyebrows as the Hulk touches a finger the size of his arm to Tony’s foot. 

Tony laughs and leans forward to pat the Hulk’s shoulder. “I’m fine, buddy. Hawkeye’s got me covered – you want to take out the rest of the bad guys behind us?” 

The Hulk looks at Clint, who taps out a different pattern to bring a normal arrow forward, as if the Hulk would be able to tell. When the Hulk grins, his teeth are almost as big as Clint’s head. He tries not to follow that train of thought (too late: heads popping like blood-filled grapes between the huge white teeth, red staining green), and slides around to stick close to Tony as they move out of the way. The Hulk growls happily when they’re beyond his reach, and gets to work ripping up the rest of the building. 

“On a scale of one to ten,” Natasha whispers in his ear, “how much were you shitting your pants right there?” 

Clint swallows and jogs after Tony, who’s flying ahead already. “Ten, definitely a ten.” 

“Now imagine running from that without an Iron Man to help you out.” 

“You win, okay? We’ve definitely been over this before. In terms of horrific life-threatening situations that make you want to curl into a ball and cry yourself to sleep, you will always win because of that time the Hulk tried to kill you.” 

She sounds smug when she replies. “Just checking.” 

“Bite me,” he says without heat as he ducks a pipe sticking out from a wall and kicks an AIM guy in the head when he tries to leap out at him. “ _AIM_. Jesus, I hate AIM.” 

“ _You_ hate AIM?” Tony turns and shakes his head. “What did AIM ever do to you?” 

“Torture and an assassination attempt,” Clint deadpans. “Not to mention sucking up two years of my life and putting my blood pressure up to really unhealthy levels. At least you were valuable to them, right?” 

Tony barks a laugh, but it’s humourless and grim. “Did I look like a valuable prisoner in there?” 

“Sure did,” Clint takes out a masked gunman with an arrow to the neck. “AIM usually does much worse.” He thinks of the markets and industries AIM is built on and sighs. 

“Focus, Hawkeye,” Natasha says over the link, and he nods. 

“Sure thing. Where’s Cap?” 

“Seconds away,” she tells him, and Clint hears something smashing through bricks in the corridor to their left. “That’s him, relax.” 

“Ask me to eat a laser beam, that’d be easier right now,” he mutters, but he’s still a little relieved when Steve shoves rubble out of the way with his shield and joins them. 

“Report.” 

“We’re fine,” Tony says, looking up. “Come on, we’re close to the surface. I want to get out of here.” 

“SHIELD’s sending reinforcements,” Natasha tells them, “ETA ten minutes.” 

Coulson, Clint thinks without meaning to, and shoves the thought away viciously. He can’t afford to get distracted right now. 

They make their way up, and while the Hulk happily destroys everything below ground that comes within smashing distance, Thor guards Natasha as she extracts as much data from the facility’s systems as she can. Clint keeps an arrow at the ready and scouts the perimeter while Steve tries to gouge Tony’s physical health. Good luck to him, Clint thinks, and dispatches a few stragglers who try to sneak up on them. It’s absurdly different to his old job. No one at SHIELD wears bright colours or makes out that they’re superheroes, but this is good. Of the six of them, Steve and Thor are the only ones who really fill the role of hero anyway. The Hulk is too volatile, Tony still lashes out at anyone who tries to put him on a pedestal without his express say-so, Bruce panics whenever anyone turns a camera on him, and he and Natasha have worked in between the lines of black and white for far too long to have any illusions about what they are. And what they are definitely doesn’t make them hero material. 

They get Tony out safely, get a load of data on AIM as a bonus (there’s stuff in there about the MODOC plan Clint had heard whispers about on his AIM mission, but when he catches a glimpse of the files, the last letter has changed from a ‘C’ to a ‘K’. He’s not sure what to make of that), and they’re back in the tower before midnight. Tony goes straight to the workshop, and not even Bruce dares venture down after him. He had a huge argument with Steve, he chewed out an unfortunate SHIELD agent who tried to persuade him to go to medical, and he practically spat flames at Clint when he not-very-subtly asked for him to keep his mouth shut about the state he found him in. Clint lets it slide because the damage was superficial, and he’s sure Tony’s had worse burns from his own blowtorches, but he let Tony know in no uncertain terms that if he tried to order him around like that again, he’d get an arrow to the face. 

Team Mental Health Problems, he remembers Tony calling them when they first decided to make the Avengers an official thing, and snorts. He has a long shower and goes to bed early. Team Seriously Fucked Up Issues is more accurate, he thinks before he falls asleep. He jerks awake at ten past four in the morning with a scream on his lips, ripped from a dream where Coulson was with them on the AIM attack and got shot right in front of Clint’s eyes. 

He throws tracksuit bottoms and a shirt on and goes downstairs to the gym with his mind swirling, images of the bullet hitting home burned on the insides of his eyelids, the memory of the scream of denial still in his throat even though it never really happened. He never saw Coulson die. He wasn’t there. He was busy following orders he can’t remember being given, a blue haze around the edges of his vision. 

Steve’s punching bags occupy a corner of the gym, and there’s one hanging there invitingly. Clint tapes his hands up methodically (what would Coulson say if he was careless?) and goes for it. It’s not as satisfying as he wants, and after only twenty minutes he breaks away with a snarl and goes upstairs to wake up Natasha. “Spar with me,” he asks when she opens her door, looking totally alert even though her hair is a mess and he’s clearly woken her up. 

“Okay,” she says, like it’s totally normal, and he waits while she pulls on a pair of pants and follows him back downstairs. They’re silent the whole way down, and they don’t talk while Natasha warms up and Clint swings on the rafters like they’re monkey bars. She gives him no warning when she attacks, and he falls into it so gratefully that he’s almost startled by the intensity. Team Seriously Fucked Up Issues indeed. They beat each other bloody, but when they finally break and go upstairs for breakfast, Clint’s unwound enough to smile again. 

 

 

Clint starts making a mental tally after Bruce is snatched out of New York by who the hell knows and Tony predictably loses his shit. Thor is the only one who can get anywhere near him without sustaining an injury, and Clint exchanges a look with Steve and shrugs helplessly. They all know how dependant their scientists have become on each other. So while Tony and Jarvis throw themselves into searching for Bruce and Steve talks to Fury, the rest of them sit around feelings antsy and useless, and Clint starts to make a tally based on their respective mental stability levels. 

Points given for known issues, extra for if they affected interaction with others. Points taken away for successful dealing with of said issues. Clint leans back on the couch and makes the marks in his mind. 

Tony comes out streaks ahead of everyone else, because everyone knows he has more daddy issues than the devil himself. He also gets points for his drinking problems, his inability to show weakness in front of anyone, and having more stable relationships with his own creations than other human beings. 

Steve gets points for everyone he knew being dead, but loses them for dealing with them so well. It’s a tough call where he’s concerned, mostly because Clint still hasn’t figured out how much of him is Steve Rogers, kid from Brooklyn, and how much is Captain America, the guy who punched Hitler in the face for _freedom_. Natasha comes high up on the list – no one else has been raised from birth to be a soulless assassin, after all, and it’s hard to trump that. She also gets points for having faulty memories and behavioural conditioning embedded in her subconscious that could be activated by anything at any time. Clint has to give the same faulty memories points to himself because of the Loki incident. He also gives himself points for his limited abilities to make lasting friends, his obsession with proving himself, his new issues with control (also Loki’s fault), and all of his regrets and guilt concerning Coulson. 

Bruce is another tricky one, because he’s like Natasha in the sense that he gets a lot of points given to him for his traumatic past experiences, but gets them taken off again just as easily because of how well he deals with it. Of course, he does spend at least two hours a day meditating, and Clint recognises the symptoms of trying to work really hard to exhaust the brain to prevent nightmares in him, even if he never says anything. It’s difficult to tell sometimes where Bruce lies on the scale. He’s one of the most nervous people Clint’s ever met, but he also carries a sort of serene confidence in himself that Tony’s especially adept at bringing out. 

Thor appears to be the healthiest of them all, but he’s also lived for hundreds of years, and Clint’s not sure if Asgardians even know what PTSD is. Plus, Loki is his brother, and Clint adds a good few points to his tally just for that. He arranges the table in his head and sighs at the results. 

Tony wins, no contest. Clint comes in behind him, followed by Natasha, Bruce, Steve, and then Thor. Clint knows that he’s only second on the list at the moment because of his inability to deal with his nightmares and the delightful bucket of problems Loki’s tampering has left in his brain, but it’s still a little disheartening. He decides not to share his admittedly unscientific findings with the group. 

They find Bruce after a truly harrowing week. He’s been locked up, tortured, starved, and generally treated like a lab rat. He passes out after telling them that there are innocent people that need saving. As soon as Steve tells him they’re taking care of it, he’s out like a light, and as they fight their way out, Clint thinks to himself that that is just so _Bruce_ to force himself to stay conscious to tell them about trapped civilians. 

Tony’s practically screaming over the link for someone to tell Thor (who’s shorted out yet another earpiece) not to fry everything until he’s done. He’s on a rampage, tearing through as much tech as he can to get to the self-destruct sequence the damn bunker has wired into it. They get Bruce out into the open and Clint stays to take care of him and pick off any hostiles who try and get away into the jungle while they wait for SHIELD backup (don’t think about Coulson, don’t think about Coulson). 

“Had us worried there, Bruce,” he says under his breath, crouched over the doctor’s unconscious body protectively. “You’re not looking too hot, I hope you don’t mind me saying. You could use a shave for one thing, and I bet you’re craving a shower right now. I know I would be.” He narrows his eyes and shoots a man in body armour as he flees from a burning section of the compound. Keeping his eyes on the surroundings, he touches his fingers to his ear. 

“This is Hawkeye. Anyone care to update me?” 

“SHIELD’s on its way,” Steve grunts, sounding like he’s fighting someone. “ETA seven minutes. Iron Man! Give us your location!” 

“Bottom floor,” Tony’s voice is hard over the link, “sub-basement. I’ve disabled the self-destruct, but it was only a distraction. They’ve wiped their files.” 

“How thoroughly?” Natasha asks. 

“They’ve wiped everything!” there’s a bang, and Clint thinks Tony kicked something. “I can’t be sure unless I get some of this stuff back to the tower. I need to run diagnostics, circuit scans – Jarvis needs to analyse this properly.” 

“Is this a priority?” Clint asks. 

“We need to know what the hell they were doing to him in here,” Tony snaps. “If they’ve injected him with anything, the likelihood of him losing control is huge.” 

“You think they would have risked that?” Natasha grunts. 

“I think they knew what they were risking when they took him,” Tony says. “I need Thor and Cap down here to help with carrying this stuff. I can only take so much. They had some objective in mind when they captured him. If it was for a bounty, he’d be in Ross’ hands by now. The guy has a price on Bruce’s head high enough to buy a small country.” 

“Is that legal?” Steve sounds concerned, and Clint laughs, killing another runner. 

“What do you think, Cap?” 

“Ross doesn’t exactly care about legal where the Hulk is concerned,” Natasha agrees. “Let’s move, guys.” 

Bruce shoots to second place in Clint’s tally after he wakes up, and everyone can see how deeply he was affected by whatever was done to him. The guy who kidnapped him is apparently called the Mandarin, and while no one else seems to be surprised, Clint and Natasha share a worried look when the news comes back from SHIELD that they’ve never heard of him before. If SHIELD hasn’t heard of someone capable of doing what the Mandarin has done, it means that person is either very new or very clever, and the Mandarin had too much control over the situation to be new on the scene. 

Bruce tries to act as normal as he can, but everyone notices how scared he is. He won’t go outside the tower alone, and he jumps at sudden movements and loud noises. He comes to Clint and Natasha when they’re sparring in the gym one morning and asks them shyly if they’ll give him a few lessons. Clint’s surprised by what he knows already – Bruce isn’t exactly defenceless. But he wants to know more, and he’s in decent enough shape (he does some yoga, he admits), so Clint teaches him how to block basic attacks and where to strike on a body to cripple the attacker, and Natasha shows him some of her dirtiest tricks. 

It doesn’t escape Clint’s notice that Tony has been going into Bruce’s room a lot at night. They never go in together, and Bruce never goes to Tony, but Clint’s just leaving his room at stupid am (woken by another nightmare) when Tony runs down the stairs in just a pair of pyjama bottoms, not seeing him at all. The arc reactor lights up the corridor for a moment, but then it’s gone. Clint goes silently to the stairs and looks down just as Tony runs into Bruce’s room, the doctor’s name on his lips. 

Despite all of this, they never behave any differently in front of the others, and Clint confesses to Natasha in the range that he doesn’t know what to make of it. She rolls her eyes and indicates for them to switch weapons. Since they work together in the field so often, it makes sense to know how to operate each other’s toys. Natasha’s a fair shot with a bow, and Clint’s more than decent with her guns, but he’s never quite gotten the hang of her Widow’s Bite bracelets. He’s better than he was though – he used to electrocute himself as often as the targets, much to Natasha’s amusement. 

“What?” he asks. She shakes her head and sighs. 

“I suppose it makes sense that you’d be as oblivious to it in other people as you are with yourself.” 

“What does that even mean?” 

“Bruce and Tony are dancing around each other the way you and Coulson did,” she says bluntly. He doesn’t miss the calculating look she gives him out of the corner of her eye, but he can’t help ducking his head at the name. They haven’t spoken of Coulson since she told him what happened on the Helicarrier. They’ve spoken around him, they’ve alluded to him, but neither of them has spoken his name before now. 

“I don’t remember any dancing,” he says, loading the guns Natasha gave him. 

She sighs. “You know what I mean. Tony’s a little more proactive than either of you ever were though.” 

Oh, he thinks, _that’s_ why they don’t talk about Coulson. The past tense is an unforgiving, painful thing. He aims, and his shot goes wide by a couple of inches. “He doesn’t seem to be doing more than sneaking into Bruce’s room in the middle of the night at the moment,” he says, not looking at Natasha. 

“He’s worried about scaring Bruce off. Which isn’t exactly irrational, when you think about the guy’s track record of running.” She glares down the sight of Clint’s bow and lets the arrow fly. It doesn’t hit the bullseye, but it comes close. She huffs and lowers the bow, looking at Clint openly. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, firing once from each gun. The recoil is hard on his wrists, and he adjusts his grip. He’ll always prefer his bow. 

“Sure,” she says sarcastically, and pulls another arrow from the quiver at her feet, pushing the panel near her foot that makes her target move slowly. She misses the bullseye again, but not by much. She’s actually better with moving targets. They force her to react on instinct, she told Clint once, whereas she had to stop and think about it if she was shooting at a stationary target. 

“I’m fine, Natasha.” 

“You don’t mind talking about Coulson then?” she gives him a narrow look, and he ignores her stubbornly, focusing on the targets and shooting until he’s out of bullets and the centre of his target is in pieces. “It’s been over four months now.” 

“I know how long it’s been.” Four months, one week, two days. Not like he’s counting. He catches Natasha’s eye and sighs, lowering the guns. “I’m trying not to think about it. And I’m sure that’s, like, disrespectful to his memory or whatever, but I can’t…” he trails off and looks down, but Natasha doesn’t say anything. “I’m making myself do this. I’m forcing myself forward, but if I think about him, and everything I didn’t do and everything I didn’t say, then I’ll just,” he looks at the shredded target and shrugs one shoulder slightly, “break.” He puts the guns down on the floor and turns away. “I can’t deal with that right now, Natasha. And not for…a while yet, at least. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she says, and he hears her put his bow down. “I can wait. Showers?” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, and she punches his shoulder as they go. 

That evening, she decides that they need to get of the tower for once, and Clint suggests a bar he knows from his time in the city. Tony persuades Bruce to come, and Thor is overwhelmingly enthusiastic. He invites Jane and Darcy, who turn up looking slightly dishevelled. “She’s been in the lab all week,” Darcy explains to Clint when he raises his eyebrows. “We ran out of pop tarts and she almost disembowelled a SHIELD inspector with a miniaturised particle accelerator. It was both impressive and minorly terrifying. Hi, by the way.” 

“Hi,” he can’t help a smile. Darcy tends to have that effect on people. When they get to the bar, it turns out that it’s open mic night. Clint suggests going somewhere else, but the concept of open mic is new and exciting for Thor, and in the end they cave to his pleading and go on in. Tony pays a couple to move so that they can push two tables together and they settle down to watch. After a couple of songs, Thor declares that he must compete in this fine competition, and that they should all join him. They manage to talk him down from entering the whole group, but Tony grins and agrees to compete against him after they also explain that it isn’t actually a competition. They agree that Clint, Natasha, Darcy, and Bruce will be the judges. 

They get slots for about half an hour later, and they drink and watch the other singers comfortably while they wait. A lot of them are playing their own stuff, and Clint makes a mental note to come here on open mic night more often. One of them is selling CDs, and he goes over to buy one and comes back just as Thor takes the stage. As he adjusts the height of the microphone for his ridiculous height, Clint has a sudden thought and turns to Jane. “Does Thor actually know any Earth songs?” 

She opens her mouth and closes it again. “I don’t know,” she says, staring at the stage with wide eyes. “I didn’t think to ask.” 

“Well this should be interesting,” Natasha murmurs, and Darcy gets out her phone, grin in place. 

“Either way, this is definitely going on YouTube.” 

Thor taps the mic once to check it’s working, and the bar falls silent as he begins to hum, deep in his throat. He has a very low voice, and Clint leans forward, intrigued, as Thor pauses. “How many of you can follow that note?” he asks the bar, and there’s a mutter of confused assent. “Hold it for me,” Thor prompts, humming again and gesturing for everyone in there to keep it steady. Clint grins and nods encouragingly at Natasha, who rolls her eyes but obligingly adds her voice to the hum, an octave above the original note. “Very good,” Thor smiles, and begins to sing. “When Odin’s eye was still whole, when Odin’s gaze was still full, there was a truce he brought forth, and all the realms would feel its worth.” 

The song is slow and rhythmic, and Thor enunciates every word clearly, telling the story of how a lord of the Vanir was brought forth as part of a lasting truce between the Vanir and Aesir peoples. His name was Heimdall, and as a sign of trust, Odin allowed him access to Mímir’s Well, the fount of wisdom and knowledge. Heimdall exchanged a piece of himself for the right to drink, and was granted the abilities to see and hear all that occurred across all the nine realms connected to Yggdrasil the world tree by the Bifröst Bridge. So grateful for the gift and so humbled by the responsibility, he swore fealty to Odin and became the Bifröst’s gatekeeper and Guardian of Asgard. As long as Heimdall stands, the truce between the Aesir and Vanir holds strong. 

When Thor finishes, a full ten minutes later, there’s a moment of silence before Darcy lets out a whoop, and then the whole place is applauding. Thor beams and takes a bow before walking off the stage. Jane wipes at her eyes with an embarrassed laugh and jumps up to hug him as he approaches. “You didn’t say you could sing,” she grins, and he laughs. 

“The opportunity never arose,” he says, and looks at Tony triumphantly. “Beat that, my friend.” 

Tony pouts, then grins and jumps to his feet. “I’ll admit, that wasn’t quite what I thought I’d be beating, but beat it I shall.” He goes to the stage and snags the mic out of the stand. “I appear to be slightly unprepared,” he says, charming grin in place. “Could anyone be persuaded to lend me their guitar for a few minutes?” 

There’s a bit of muttering, and then someone near the front yells, “Hey, are you Tony Stark?” 

“I will neither confirm nor deny the reasons behind my startling resemblance to such an admittedly handsome man,” Tony says smoothly, which gets a few laughs. “Guitar, anyone? Ah, thank you,” he slots the mic back into the stand and leans forward to take the battered instrument someone passes forward. “Much obliged.” He slings it over his shoulders and doesn’t bother pulling the stool forward to sit on. After adjusting the mic height and strumming a few chords, he taps the mic and clears his throat. “I encourage everyone who knows the words to sing along loudly and enthusiastically. Drink up.” He nods to Thor and sticks his tongue out as he concentrates hard on the opening notes, which Clint instantly recognises. 

“Five bucks says this is the only song he knows how to play,” he whispers to Natasha, who smirks. 

“You’re on.” 

“Come out, Virginia, don’t let me wait,” Tony sings in a surprisingly strong voice, “you Catholic girls start much too late. Ah, but sooner or later it comes down to fate, I might as well be the one. Well they showed you a statue, told you to pray. They built you a temple and locked you away. Ah, but they never told you the price that you’d pay, the things that you might’ve done…only the good die young! That’s what I said!” 

The whole bar is laughing and singing along in moments, and when Tony sings about running with a dangerous crowd, he nods at their table, and Darcy waves while Clint calls him an asshole under his breath good-naturedly. 

“I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints,” Tony grins right at Steve, who shakes his head and laughs, “sinners are much more fun – you know that only the good die young!” Someone in the crowd whoops and Tony stamps the stage obligingly and hits the high notes perfectly when they come up. He ends with flair and takes a deep bow as the crowd goes wild. Darcy isn’t the only one with a phone out, filming him with a steady hand as he passes the guitar back to its owner with a grateful look and blows kisses to the cameras as he strides off the stage. 

“Well?” he grins, sitting down next to Bruce, who looks happier than he has since the Mandarin incident. 

“Impressive,” Bruce tells him, wide grin in place. “I didn’t think you’d be able to follow that up, but you pulled it off.” 

“Incidentally,” Clint leans forward so that Tony will hear him over the excited chatter, “do you know just that one song? Or have you got a hidden repertoire you like to trot out at special occasions?” 

“Oh I’ve got all sorts of tricks up my sleeves,” Tony grins. 

“What else can you play?” Natasha asks casually. 

Tony shrugs. “ _Bad Moon Rising_ is my other speciality.” 

“Pay up,” Natasha smirks and holds her hand out. 

“Not until I see proof,” Clint argues, and Tony grins. 

“I’ve got a guitar back at the tower somewhere – I’ll prove it.” 

“Asshole,” Clint says without heat, and he bends close to confer with the other judges while Thor and Tony glare at each other. Another person takes the stage and starts playing the banjo enthusiastically enough to keep the attention of the bar, so their table is left alone for the time being. 

“Okay,” Darcy says seriously, turning to the competitors. “We’ve made a decision.” 

“We’re giving Tony points for getting the place jumping,” Clint says, and Tony grins. 

“But Thor gets points for making everyone hum along,” Natasha adds, and Thor laughs at Tony’s scowl. 

“Tony gets points for singing a song with lyrics that referenced himself and us,” Darcy grins, “that was a nice touch, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Tony dips his head gracefully. 

“But Thor wins the night because of cultural significance,” Bruce finishes to Tony’s outraged yelp and Thor’s bellow of victory. 

“Come on!” Tony gapes, “you can’t be serious! That stuff he sang about was probably all a story anyway!” 

“Nay,” Thor shakes his head, “such songs are the mediums used by teachers in Asgard to instruct us in many matters, especially our own history.” 

“You memorise all of them?” Jane asks, curious. Thor laughs. 

“Very few. I was never so studious as Loki.” His face falls as he realises what he’s said, but Tony pats his arm reassuringly, so Thor continues in a quieter voice. “His voice was fairer than mine, also,” he says, frowning at the table. “I wish that you had known him before he lost his way, as I did.” 

“Well we didn’t,” Clint says, harsher than he meant to. He gulps his beer to avoid looking at any of them, and he’s glad when Jane tactfully changes the subject. 

“The Heimdall from the song – he’s the gatekeeper we were contacting when we opened up our connection to Asgard?” 

“Aye,” Thor grins, good mood restored. “The good Heimdall is an excellent gatekeeper. I hope he was watching when I sang the tale of how he gained his gifts and took up his mantle as Asgard’s guardian.” 

“It certainly got a positive response,” Jane agrees, and the attention shifts away from Clint. 

He gets that Loki was probably a great guy in Thor’s eyes before he started killing people and trying to take over the planet, but he still gets ambushed by random blue-saturated memories in his dreams, so he’s really not ready to forgive and forget any time soon. And then of course there’s the small matter of Loki shoving his sceptre of brainwashing and general evil through Coulson’s back. Clint finishes his beer and slides out of the booth. “Another round?” he asks the group, and gets a list of orders for the bar. 

When he gets back, there are a pair of women on the stage, both holding used-looking guitars. Clint’s fingers twitch, and he wonders if Tony would let him borrow his guitar, if it is indeed back at the tower. The women are ending the night, it seems, and they’re going for the emotional songs. They do a great cover of _Iris_ , and Clint’s lips twitch as he looks at Tony and Bruce. Then they do _Songbird_ , and Clint feels like his ribs are contracting. He stares at the rings on the sticky table top and doesn’t even bother trying not to think of Coulson. He knows when to choose his battles. Beside him, Natasha presses her shoulder against his and he pushes back gratefully. 

The last song the pair sing isn’t one Clint recognises, though there’s something familiar about it, and he’s sure he’s heard it before somewhere. It’s not as slow or sad as _Iris_ or _Songbird_ , but when they hit the chorus he only just stops himself from burying his head in his hands and groaning out loud. “Just let one day move into two,” they sing, “I’m losing everything except for you. I would sing you a song of devotion, yeah, that’s what I should do.” 

Clint thinks it’s either a conspiracy, or gods apart from Thor’s Asgardian friends exist and enjoy making him suffer. Either theory is entirely possible, and he sighs and swigs back the rest of his beer. Whatever they’re singing, the women on the stage are very good, and he decides to go over and talk to them afterwards. He applauds loudly with everyone else when they finish, and flips Tony off when he asks if he’s getting the next round as well. 

The woman who had been singing the lower parts is talking to her friends, but her partner is packing up her guitar, and she looks up when Clint stands in front of her. “I liked your set,” he says, and she smiles, flipping down the catches on the case and smoothing down her long skirt as she straightens. 

“Thanks,” she says, “I’ll let Val know.” 

“I didn’t recognise the last song,” Clint holds her gaze. “What was it?” 

“Oh,” she laughs, “ _Devotion_ by Indigo Girls. It’s one of my favourites.” 

Indigo Girls, Clint thinks as he nods. He knew he’d heard it before. “Thanks. You’re both real good.” 

“Your friends weren’t bad either,” she grins, and he looks over his shoulder at their table, where Tony immediately begins giving him the thumbs up, winking suggestively. 

“Asshole,” he murmurs, and smiles to show he doesn’t mean it before he flips Tony off again. 

“Is that really Tony Stark?” she asks, and he sighs. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“So that means you guys…” she bites her lip and then smiles sheepishly. “Are you guys the Avengers?” 

“Depends who’s asking,” he shrugs. 

“I’m Terri,” she says, taking it for an invitation to introduce herself. He shakes her hand. 

“Hi, Terri.” 

“You’re Hawkeye, aren’t you?” 

“Clint.” 

“Okay,” she looks slightly star struck. “Wow. Cool. Thanks for saving the city, by the way.” 

He can’t help laughing. “Don’t mention it. It was good to meet you.” 

“You too,” she sounds genuinely pleased, and he smiles at her one last time before he walks back to the table. 

“Did you seriously fail to buy her a drink?” Tony asks, disbelieving. Clint rolls his eyes and slides back into the booth, where Darcy is teaching Thor to play slapsies and Bruce is trying to persuade them both that it’s a terrible idea, at least in a public place. 

“I wasn’t looking to buy her a drink,” Clint tells him. “I just wanted to know what that last song was.” 

“Indigo Girls?” Natasha says. 

“Yeah,” he rubs a hand through his hair. “Now if we’re done here, I’ve got five bucks riding on your ability to play some Creedence Clearwater Revival, Stark, god help us all.” 

Steve laughs and finishes his ridiculous purple cocktail. Since he isn’t affected by the alcohol, he’s been letting Darcy choose his drinks for him, and she’s been choosing the cocktails with the brightest colours and weirdest names. 

Tony can indeed play _Bad Moon Rising_ , it turns out, and Clint reluctantly hands five dollars over to Natasha before she shoves the guitar into his hands and gestures for him to play something. He gestures back hopelessly, and Jane saves him by requesting Johnny Cash, so he plays _Ring of Fire_ and _Folsom Prison Blues_. Tony laughs and tells him to stick with the country music, so he plays some Charlie Daniels and just about muddles his way through _Jolene_ and _Bad To The Bone_ while Tony breaks open the liquor cabinet (which, because this is Tony, is more like a liquor _store_ ) and tells everyone to help themselves. The gleam in Natasha’s eye could only be described as unholy, but Clint tunes it out and focuses on the feel of the strings under his fingers, the neck of Tony’s guitar warm in his hand. 

Darcy’s the one who gets him to knock back some of Tony’s eye-wateringly expensive whiskey and plants a kiss on his cheek as a reward before she goes to hug Jane and give Steve an assessing leer. Clint likes Darcy. He admires people who are unafraid to be affectionate, so he asks her what she wants him to play. 

She thinks for a moment and then goes to sit practically in Steve’s lap, flinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. “You ever heard any Journey, Cap?” she asks, and Steve shakes his head, apparently incapable of speech. Clint laughs at the sight. “You know any Journey?” she thinks to ask him, and he nods slowly, remembering long days spent driving with Lori next to him, the two of them belting out whatever was on the radio that week as loudly as they could. 

So he sings _Faithfully_ , and he smiles the whole time, especially when he gets to, “Circus life. Under the big top world. We all need the clowns to make us smile,” and he remembers why he and Lori used to love this song so much. He thinks he might be starting to feel better, and it might just be the alcohol talking, and the warm atmosphere he’s accidentally fallen into, and even though his heart still aches when he looks at Thor and remembers Coulson telling him that the god of thunder had addressed him as _Son of Coul_ when he first regained his powers, he can laugh at the same time as Steve flings a cushion at Thor and Jane, who are making out like horny teenagers on the other end of the couch. 

“Get a room,” he says, grin wide, and no one misses the way he looks over at Tony to check that he got the modern term right. Tony gives him a thumbs up and Bruce smiles. 

“Speak for yourself,” he points out, nodding at the way Darcy had slipped into Steve’s lap properly. Clint has to give her points for neatness, and she just looks smug when Steve looks down at her like he’s surprised to see her. 

“I’ll move if you really want, but you’ll have to push me,” she grins unrepentantly, and Steve fails at hiding his smile. She lifts up her hand expectantly. “Someone needs to high-five me for this,” she demands, and Natasha leans over and slaps her palm obligingly. “Sweet,” Darcy grins. “You learn to play guitar in the circus, carny?” she asks Clint. 

He swings the instrument off his knee and leans it carefully against the wall. “Maybe.” 

“Do you miss it?” she asks, eyes bright with drink behind her glasses. Steve is looking at her like he’s surprised anyone would be interested in him, and Clint has to remind himself that he was a skinny little shit before he got the serum – not the kind of guy girls fell over themselves for. 

“The circus?” 

“Uh huh.” 

He shrugs. “Not really. It was okay, but I left for a reason.” 

“Huh,” she nods slowly and leans her head back to look at Tony and Bruce, stood behind the couch and talking about some sort of sciencey thing Clint can’t understand. “Hey,” she says, and louder when they don’t hear her, “hey!” 

“ADHD,” Tony nods, and Darcy’s not the only one who snorts. 

“Like you can talk,” she grins, and turns around in Steve’s lap to look at them properly. “What do you miss?” 

Oh Christ, Clint thinks, suddenly remembering New Mexico. Darcy’s a great drunk, but she has a tendency to ask loaded questions without warning. Tony frowns. “A little clarification wouldn’t go amiss.” 

“Don’t try and put me off with your big words,” she narrows her eyes at him. “I spend my days with an astrophysicist. I said, what do you miss? You must miss something, right? Clint misses the circus,” she lowers her voice like it’s a secret, and Clint raises his eyebrows. “He won't admit it. What do you miss, Richie Rich?” 

Tony’s lips quirk, and he puts his head on his side, thinking for a moment. “I miss Happy,” he decides. “And Pep. I don’t see them so much these days.” 

“Okay,” Darcy nods and points at Bruce. “You. What do you miss?” 

“Um,” Bruce raises his eyebrows, but his answer isn’t what Clint had expected. “I miss living on crap food and coffee. I have to actually think about my body’s health now. It’s more work than you’d expect.” 

Darcy gives him a sympathetic look and moves onto Thor and Jane, who are still being nauseatingly cuddly on the other end of the couch. “Hey!” Darcy throws another cushion at them to get their attention. “Jane! What do you miss?” 

Jane narrows her eyes. “You had some of that whiskey, didn’t you?” 

“Answer the question!” 

“You always start asking questions like this when you’ve had too much to drink.” 

“I know my limits, Puddle.” Clint frowns before he connects the name with the Doctor Foster nursery rhyme, and holds back a laugh as Jane shoots Darcy a _filthy_ look. 

“I miss the days before I told you about that nickname.” 

Darcy gives her a shit-eating grin and points at Thor. “Thunderer! What do you miss?” 

“I miss my brother,” Thor says, unsurprisingly, “and also my horse, though the roads here are too crowded for so mighty a steed to ride upon unhindered.” 

Darcy points her finger of doom at Clint and then swings it past him to Natasha. “Covered you, even though I prompted you. Scary lady, what do you miss?” 

Natasha frowns, and Clint knows exactly what she’s about to say just before she says it, and has time to avert his eyes before she tries to meet them. “I miss Coulson,” she says quietly, and Darcy hums. 

“Agent Suit?” her nickname for him in New Mexico. “I liked him. Your turn, Cap,” she grins at Steve and Clint looks up as she prods his nose with her finger. “What do you miss?” 

“I…” Steve hesitates and then smiles ruefully. “I guess I miss Brooklyn. It’s still kinda the same, but I miss the Brooklyn I knew.” 

 _Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in_ , Clint thinks, and makes a mental note to give Steve the song. 

“I miss my brother,” Darcy says decisively, and Jane’s expression softens. 

“Your brother?” Steve asks, and Darcy nods, pushing her glasses up her nose. 

“He died when we were kids. Leukaemia. We should play a drinking game.” 

Just like that, any good feelings Clint had for her vanish, because he played a few games with Darcy while he was out in New Mexico, and she was cruel and merciless. He’s struck by a sudden thought and looks between her and Natasha in horror. “You’re going to murder us all,” he says, and Natasha grins. 

It’s around his sixth shot that he starts to think he understands what Jane and Bruce are talking about in their terrifying science shorthand, and five shots later Natasha gives up on any pretext of subtlety and just pushes Steve’s lips into Darcy’s with an exasperated sigh. Darcy holds up a hand twenty seconds later, tongue definitely in Steve’s mouth, and everyone in the room high-fives her. 

Clint wakes up next morning on the floor in the kitchen under a kindly placed blanket and has a moment of gratitude to his drunken self for choosing to pass out in such a convenient spot, because he only has to take one step to the sink to throw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other songs that were included in this chapter:
> 
> Tony's open mic song: [Only The Good Die Young](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhjNm20XbXw) by Billy Joel.  
> The three songs that Terri and Val sang: [Iris](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8UeeIAJ0a0) by The Goo Goo Dolls, [Songbird](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpjMjLIp1Xk) by Fleetwood Mac, and [Devotion](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgJka7YIgmE) by Indigo Girls.  
> Tony's next song: [Bad Moon Rising](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BmEGm-mraE) by Creedence Clearwater Revival.  
> Clint's songs: [Ring Of Fire](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIBTg7q9oNc) and [Folsom Prison Blues](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWsuVuw5JO4) by Johnny Cash, [Jolene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGEubdH8m0s) by Dolly Parton, [Bad To The Bone](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9bOsdHckhg) by George Thorogood, and [Faithfully](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVs4jDL-JBo) by Journey.


	11. I See Signs Now All The Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint spends a lot of time in the range, Stark Industries is sabotaged, Jarvis is attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Signs](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TooEjrCnUWw) by Bloc Party.

He’s still feeling slightly nauseas the next day, but he’s painfully conscious of the missed practise hours. The others can relax for a day, he’s sure – it’s not like Bruce is ever going to lose the Hulk, and a day off won’t stop Thor being able to punch people through walls – but he logs up the hours he should have spent yesterday training and shooting and pushes himself downstairs as soon as he wakes up. 

Logically, he knows one day off won’t kill him, and it isn’t like he’s never had days off before. It’s just that those days off have only happened because he was either on a mission or in medical. And he’s never stayed in medical for his full recommended time anyway (he doesn’t think anyone he knows has, come to that. No wonder the medics hate them all so much). But he’s on a team of superheroes now. He needs to be better. He needs to be useful. The moment he slips up, he becomes obsolete. Natasha’s pretty damn accurate, after all, and he’s sure they could outfit her with some fancy bullets to make up for his fancy arrows. It’s worse because they’re all in the public eye so much these days. He’s Googled himself, sure. It’s not narcissism. It’s actually more like masochism, because a lot of the stuff the internet has on him isn’t exactly flattering. 

He’s not one of the big four, is the thing. Sure, neither is Natasha, but she’s the sole woman of the group, and therefore gets just as much attention as Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, and the Hulk. The only one of them with less written about him is Bruce, and that’s because no one cares about the Hulk’s human incarnation. Clint knows that Bruce is probably incredibly grateful for this, and most of the time he mentally agrees with him. Clint’s whole job is based around secrecy, after all. If he becomes an easily recognised face, his job gets a whole lot harder. He tells himself this, but it doesn’t hide the real problem, and the real reason behind the way he’s practically bullying himself into going to the range at seven in the morning on a Sunday. 

Because he can’t allow himself to slip up. He’s seen enough blog entries asking what the point of him even being on the team is to know what will happen if he slips up. And yeah, those might be the same blogs that insist that Natasha is only there to tick some sort of feminism box, and ask what will happen if Thor has to choose between his brother and humankind again (an alien’s an alien whether it’s in a cape or a spaceship, they warn), but it still stings a little. He knows his shooting marked him out in the army, and he knows he proved himself pretty damn well in SHIELD, but this is a completely different ball game. He’s playing on a team with a god, a billionaire in a virtually indestructible suit he built himself, and _Captain America_ , for god’s sakes. He’s just a guy with a bow, a quiver of interesting arrows, and good aim. And the Iron Man suit can aim automatically. 

Clint sighs and sits down on the floor of the range to take his bow apart and line his arrows out next to him, grouping them by what they can do. Normal, explosive, smoke, tear gas, putty, net, grapple, flare, cable, and the newest additions – acid, and electric. He’s played with the prototypes, but these are the finalised products. He spends the first hour just practising with the different types. Adjusting his technique to their different weights and flight paths is second nature by now, but he takes his time, falling into a nice, easy rhythm. Take arrow, nock, draw, sight, hold, release. Breathe. Take arrow, nock, draw, sight, hold, release. Breathe. Repeat. 

In the second hour, he goes for speed. He adjusts his position constantly – standing, crouching, kneeling – and after a while he takes some arrows and scatters them around the room, testing his ability to retrieve and shoot them as fast as possible. Exercises like these are ones he’s come up with himself, based on his experiences in the field. His arrows don’t hit the targets perfectly every time, so he does it again and again until they do. 

In the third hour he boots up Tony’s basic moving target program and gets to work. He starts the speed off at the lowest setting and increases it after each round until they’re zipping around the range beyond the barrier. He’s good with moving targets; always has been. He gets it perfect every time, and he sets them on the lowest speed again and starts to move himself, keeping a slow jog his minimum speed. He keeps going until he’s sprinting around the range with the targets at maximum speed, constantly changing his distance from the targets. It’s hard work, and it drives everything else from his mind. 

He’s sweating by the end, but he doesn’t let himself rest. He might not get a chance to rest in a combat situation, after all, and it’s always best to prepare for the worst. He sets up Tony’s newest program and stands back as it comes into effect. The barrier that separates him from the targets lowers into the floor and the mobile targets begin to move around as other things rise from the floor and descend from the ceiling. It had taken Tony a few days to install, but Clint has to admit that it’s really worth it. The moving obstacle course is the only thing that can come close to a real life situation, and he relishes the challenge. He sets it to run for half an hour and jumps into action. 

The targets freeze for twenty seconds when he hits their centres (he only uses normal arrows for this course, though Tony’s apparently working towards accommodating the special ones), so he has a chance to retrieve them. The blocks move slowly around the floor, but are liable to change direction without warning. There are pipe-like structures hanging from the ceiling that are excellent for climbing on and using as vantage points, but they occasionally give way underneath him if he stays on them for too long. The first time that had happened had caught Clint by surprise and he had nearly twisted his ankle in the fall. He didn’t complain though – he’s meant to be able to handle surprises like that in the field, and he can’t blame Tony for making the course realistic. 

He’s panting by the time the course shudders to a stop, but he sets it for another half hour without pausing. He has to stay focused. He can’t afford to slip up. 

When it ends, he rolls back to the basics. The course shuts down, blocks sinking into the floor and pipes rising into the ceiling, and Clint collects his arrows and sorts through them carefully, taking the time to get his breath back. He’s tired and verging on weak (he hasn’t had breakfast yet), but he doesn’t want to stop yet. He’s in the zone. The string is singing and the bow is steady in his hand, the arrows practically leaping to his fingers when he touches them. He sets the moving targets going and shoots until he’s out of arrows. Then he pauses the course to collect them and starts again, upping the speed. 

This course is his favourite, and when his mind goes blank and empty like this it’s like he’s reached some sort of zen state. He’s hyper aware of his surroundings and every single one of his arrows hits the bullseye. He doesn’t hesitate or waver for a second, and his whole world narrows to the inside of the range, eyes constantly tracking movement and flight paths, adjusting automatically and making no mistakes. It’s perfect, and he forgets that he’s hungry, that he’s in the tower, that he’s still a little hungover. He forgets his name, he forgets the rest of the team, and he forgets Coulson. Everything that isn’t immediately relevant to the shooting slips away, and the rhythm swallows him whole. 

He sees Natasha approach the door out of the corner of his eye, and he’s glad that she waits for him to run out of arrows before she comes in. “Having fun?” she asks dryly, and he doesn’t answer, pausing the targets and going to collect his arrows. “You know you’ve been down here for hours right?” 

“What time is it?” 

“Almost two.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Huh.” 

“Have you even had breakfast yet?” 

“I was getting to it.” 

“Sure you were,” he can hear her rolling her eyes, and she comes over to lean on the barrier. “You done here or what?” 

His mind is full again now, so he sighs and says, “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“Good, we’re making cakes.” 

That floors him. “We are?” 

She smirks. “Remember Chicago?” 

He does. They’d been sent there a week before the mark arrived in town to set up a base, and since they’d done than in the first day, they’d spent the rest of the week trying to find civilian-friendly ways to avoid boredom. One of the things they came up with was cooking. 

“Didn’t we say we wouldn’t ever try working together in a kitchen ever again?” 

“Who said we would be alone in this?” 

Clint narrows his eyes. “Who else? It’s not Tony, is it?” 

“He’s banned from the kitchen,” she says smoothly as he turns around, hands full of arrows. “Pepper’s orders.” 

“When did that happen?” 

“He tried to make her an omelette once. I think it nearly gave her food poisoning. Also, you can’t have missed his tendency to turn everything mechanical he touches into some sort of sentient being and/or weapon.” 

“She banned him after that?” 

“No, I think he tried doing something to the microwave one time. She warned us not to let him in the kitchen again.” 

“When did that happen?” 

“Pepper actually comes around at least once a month, you know,” Natasha gives him a pointed look. “Maybe you’d see her if you actually spent some time upstairs once in a while.” 

“Bite me,” he says, but he’s smiling slightly as he puts the arrows back in the quiver and slings it over his shoulder. “Give me a minute to shower, then I’ll be up.” 

“Good. You reek.” 

“Ever the charmer.” 

She smiles and shakes her head as she leaves, and he sighs before he follows, casting a look at the range over his shoulder as he does. He’s already missing his blank, focused mind-set. 

 

 

“Here,” Clint says, handing Steve the memory stick. 

“What is it?” Steve asks, frowning. “I mean, what’s on it?” 

“A few songs I thought you’d like.” 

“Trust him,” Natasha says as she walks past them into the kitchen. “He’s good with matching music to people.” 

He remembers the first CD he ever gave her and smiles. “Still a big Tori Amos fan, huh?” 

“My second musical love,” she places a hand over her heart and smirks. 

“Who’s your first?” 

“You know the answer to that.” 

Tchaikovsky. He knows. 

“Okay,” Steve looks between them and smiles faintly. “Thanks. How many are there?” 

“Not many,” Clint shrugs. “The first one’s the important one. The others are ones I think you’ll like. Stuff I know you haven’t heard, anyway.” 

Steve looks at the stick curiously. “What’s the first one?” 

“ _I And Love And You_ by The Avett Brothers.” 

“Why’s it important?” 

“Something you said the other night made me think of it. By the way – don’t worry if you don’t like any of it, I won’t take it personally,” he smirks, and Steve shrugs self-consciously. He has a tendency to worry about accidentally hurting their feelings, and they all know it. 

Steve finds him in the range the next day and waits for his course to finish before coming in, the way Natasha had. It was Tony’s special moving course, so Clint’s out of breath when he waves Steve in. “You’re really good,” is the first thing Steve says, and Clint shrugs. 

“I have to be. You need something?” 

“The music you gave me,” Steve falters and then pulls himself together. “I wanted to say thank you. Natasha was right. About you matching songs to people, I mean.” 

“Oh,” Clint raises his eyebrows and then smiles. “Hey, no problem. I’m glad you liked them.” 

“You really are good, you know,” Steve says, looking around at where the moving blocks and targets had been. “I’m glad you’re on the team.” 

“Yeah?” Clint tilts his head. 

“Every team needs a sniper,” Steve says, a slight twist to the corner of his mouth. “You’re the best shot I’ve seen since…well, since Bucky. He used a gun though.” 

“Of course,” Clint nods and only hesitates for a moment before he smirks and asks, “who do you think is better?” 

Steve laughs. “Since you use such different weapons, I couldn’t possibly say.” 

“Your loyalty is truly inspirational, Cap,” Clint grins. “You staying? Because this place is going to get pretty mobile in a minute.” 

“No, I just wanted to say thank you,” Steve shakes his head, “and I knew this was where you’d be. You spend a lot of time down here.” 

“You guys are all lazy, that’s all,” Clint snorts. “I mean, how often does Thor even bother sparring? He’s not gonna run out of biceps any time soon.” 

“Bruce comes down to the gym more than he did,” Steve points out. 

“To help himself sleep a little better at night, sure,” Clint shrugs, “not because he actually wants to punch people.” 

“Do you actually want to punch people?” 

“As long as I hit the target,” Clint smirks and gestures for Steve to leave. He wants to get back in the zone. It’s calming to forget everything for a couple of hours a day. He’ll spend three more hours in here, he decides, then take a break, grab some lunch. After that, he’ll spar with Natasha and they’ll have another session with Bruce if they can drag him out of the lab. The trick is to get Jarvis to bug him for about two hours before they want him. It’s the only way to get his attention. 

 

 

Clint’s never pretended to be a brainbox like Tony or Bruce, but he understands the impact of what happens when the smart people lose their shit all too well. And when Tony loses his shit, everyone knows about it. It’s pretty hard to miss. 

“What the hell is going on?” he asks Natasha as they run towards the main room. 

“No idea,” she shakes her head and they put on speed. Thor walks through from outside as they arrive, and the sight of Tony pacing the room with Pepper tapping frantically at three holographic screens and barking into a phone pinched between her ear and her shoulder is enough to set off alarms. Or would have done, if Jarvis hadn’t sounded the alarm two minutes earlier. 

“The team is present, sir,” Jarvis says, and Tony snarls. 

“I can see that, Jarvis! Jesus Christ, tell me this isn’t happening.” 

“What’s happening?” Steve asks, as startled as the rest of them. 

“It’s the latest Stark Industries technology,” Bruce tells them. He looks pale, and Clint stares at Pepper, who looks about ready to tear her hair out. Pepper, who is always perfectly presented and has an air of professionalism around her that no one alive can touch, is panicking. Clint starts to freak out, very quietly. 

“What about it?” Natasha asks before Steve can. 

“It’s going to malfunction,” Bruce says, glancing at Tony, who has moved to Pepper’s side and is going through whatever’s on the screens with her. “Soon. Like, within the next day soon.” 

“Malfunction how?” Steve frowns. 

“And when you say latest technology,” Clint adds, “what are we talking about here? Cell phones or computer chips? What?” 

“Everything,” Bruce tells them. “Everything that’s been shipped out or upgraded in the last six months is going to fail.” 

“Is that it?” Steve raises his eyebrows, and Clint feels the atmosphere crackle as Tony turns, eyes narrow and furious. 

“Is that it?” he repeats. Pepper puts a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off and stalks forward. Clint actually takes a step back instinctively, but Tony only has eyes for Steve, who looks like he’s regretting his words already. “Is that _it?_ Do you have any idea what will happen if this happens? Any idea what the implications will be for the company? Do you know how many people use my technology? Cell phones to _goddamn_ computer chips? Millions of people are using Stark tech right now, and if it fails, or if something happens, the company will suffer.” 

“Tony, I need you to look at this!” Pepper calls. 

“What do you mean if something happens?” Clint frowns. Natasha goes down to Pepper and they begin to work together. Pepper actually passes her phone to Natasha, and Clint remembers that they worked together while Natasha was undercover as Tony’s new PA. 

“I mean that none of my tech is harmless.” Tony is obviously making a great effort to remain calm. “Practically everything holds data, and people will be using more Stark tech as backup. If the data is lost, systems collapse. So much…look, it’s difficult to grasp, but if this happens, Stark Industries is looking at fallout on an unprecedented scale. This _cannot_ be allowed to happen.” 

“It is the company only though, is it not?” Thor joins them, a frown in place. “The owners of your device will not be harmed?” 

“Yes they will!” Tony bellows, and everyone takes a step back, because he’s really snapped now. His eyes spit fire as he advances on Thor. “Losing data like this is going to get people killed! Everyone uses Stark tech, do you understand? They use it because it is reliable and strong, and nothing ever stops it, and if it stops and explodes on them, people will get hurt! This isn’t going to be just a glitch in the system – the systems themselves will be destroyed! They will be gone forever! And the implications for the company –” 

“But the company –” Steve starts, and Tony rounds on him, incensed beyond rationality. 

“Do you own a company?” he shouts. “Do you? No! Stark Industries is my life, Rogers! The company is _me_ – if the company fails, _I_ fail. If I fail, Iron Man fails. Integrity is everything, don’t you get that? If we don’t stop this, the company won’t recover!” 

“Tony!” Natasha calls, and she sounds seriously worried. “Little help here!” 

“The scale of this is what’s the problem,” Bruce explains softly as Tony stalks over to the screens and gets a pained look on his face as he reads through whatever Natasha called him over for. “Lots of people use Stark Industries technology. Even something like a cell phone can become dangerous. And this isn’t just the circuits misfiring – this is deliberate sabotage. Someone has been working very hard on this for a long time. This sort of thing is years in the making.” 

“What sort of malfunctions will happen?” Clint asks as Tony yells for Jarvis to do something or another. “We looking at data loss or explosions here?” 

Bruce shrugs helplessly. “That’s the thing – it varies. Some things are set to erase themselves, some are set to transmit, some to burn up. And it’s all Tony’s work.” 

“What?” Steve frowns. 

“That’s what this will look like,” Thor says, realising. “Whoever has done this plans to discredit him.” 

“And discrediting Tony discredits Iron Man, and by extension the Avengers,” Bruce finishes, nodding. “And so far there doesn’t seem to be any way to stop this from happening.” 

“Jarvis, I want this routed to sub-section alpha-B-28 right now,” Tony snaps. “Contact Rhody, he needs to be aware of this – if the War Machine goes south it could kill him. You sent that email yet?” 

“I have, sir.” 

“Email?” Steve raises an eyebrow. 

“To everyone who bought something from Stark Industries in the last six months or upgraded their software,” Bruce says quietly, “reminding them to back up their work in case of emergency.” 

“No way will that reach everyone,” Clint says, and Bruce nods. 

“He knows.” 

“Why not warn them?” Steve asks. Clint shakes his head. 

“Can’t scare them. If this gets fixed but a warning like that was released anyway, it still damages the faith people have in the company.” 

“Which has been damaged enough in the past as it is,” Bruce adds. 

“Bruce, I need you here!” Tony yells. 

“Is there anything we can do to aid you?” Thor asks. 

“Oh god,” Tony drags his hands through his hair and turns to them. “I don’t know, not yet. None of you could do anything here – this is all way out of your league.” He turns back to the screens and moans faintly. “There isn’t enough time!” 

“There’s time,” Natasha says firmly, hanging up on whoever she was talking to. 

Tony takes a deep breath and goes to the window, his fingertips skimming across it and pulling up pages and pages of numbers and equations, charts and graphs. “Okay,” he says to himself, “okay, okay – Jarvis, you ready for this?” 

“For you sir, always.” 

“Okay then,” Tony swallows and starts to reel off strings of numbers and letters that make absolutely no sense to anyone but him and Jarvis. 

“There’s really nothing we can do,” Steve sounds slightly lost, and Clint pats his shoulder, trying to hide his own worry. 

“Cap, you would be surprised how many times the world has nearly ended because of computer problems. Trust me, it’s better we stay out of this.” 

Some world-threatening events occur loudly and publically, like the Chitauri attack on New York. But most of the time Clint knows they happen the way it’s happening now – playing out in no more than a few rooms with just a few very panicked people and a _lot_ of computer power. Tony vanishes into his workshop on his own because that’s where he thinks best, but Bruce, Pepper, and Natasha stay in the main room, moving between screens and talking to each other in jargon Clint doesn’t understand. He, Steve, and Thor make themselves useful by distributing coffee and easy-to-eat food. None of the others make eye contact with them; too glued to the horror unfolding across the screens to look away. Tony chips in occasionally over the speakers, giving them directions and orders and telling them where to direct their focus. 

Just as the sun begins to set they pause and sway in place. “Was that –?” Bruce asks, and Pepper breathes out slowly. 

“I think it was,” she says. “Tony?” 

“Here,” Tony says over the intercom. “And yes, I think we did just avert that. Take the time it takes for me to get up there to celebrate.” 

“So, crisis over?” Steve asks hopefully. 

“I think so,” Pepper nods, scanning data on the window and smiling slowly. “Oh my god, I think it’s going to be okay.” 

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Natasha says distractedly. 

When Tony comes up, it looks like he’s aged twenty years in eight hours. “Did we celebrate?” he asks, looking around and going on without waiting for an answer. “Great, because that’s the good news. The bad news is, this wasn’t it.” 

“What does that mean?” Pepper asks, immediately on guard again. 

“I mean that this has raised several very worrying questions,” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “Namely, how did this happen, who infiltrated the company at such a terrifyingly comprehensive level, who put this into effect, who orchestrated the whole merry dance, and most importantly, what were they trying to distract us from?” 

“Distract?” Clint frowns. 

“This was too easy,” Tony shakes his head. 

“You call that easy?” Natasha raises an eyebrow. 

“That should have taken me at _least_ five more hours,” Tony snaps, clearly too strung out to bother with manners. “Three and a half at the absolute minimum. This was a distraction. And if something like this was the distraction, I really can’t wait to find out what the main event was.” 

“SHIELD’s reported no strange events,” Natasha says. 

“SHIELD can suck it,” Tony growls, “I’m telling you this was a distraction. Jarvis, what –” 

“I believe I know what the distraction was for, sir,” Jarvis says, and Clint gets to his feet because Jarvis has never sounded like that before. Tony’s eyes go wide, and Pepper frowns. 

“Jarvis, are you alright?” 

“Something is attempting to corrupt me, sir,” Jarvis sounds _distracted_ , Clint realises. “It is not dissimilar to the malware that tried to infect my software while you were with AIM.” 

“Connection?” Tony says immediately, running to the window and clearing it with one swipe of his hand. 

“At this point, sir, I would say so. I am currently directing over seventy percent of my attention to this assault.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters, fingers fluttering over data on the window. “Oh…shit. Okay, not good, not good…” 

“Tony?” Pepper says quietly, sounding worried. 

“It isn’t corruption,” Tony says faintly, his mind elsewhere. “It’s a takeover. Whoever this is, they’re trying to take Jarvis.” 

“I am holding steady, sir,” Jarvis informs them. “Currently backing up all data into the SHIELD mainframe.” 

“Initiate failsafe omega-bourbon 88.” 

“Sir, with the processing –” 

“Dump everything unnecessary into SHIELD and the emergency backup unit. Personal preferences, user interfaces, birthdays – everything you don’t need right now.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What the hell is going on?” Clint asks, thoroughly lost. 

“More to the point, what does this person want him for?” Natasha says in a low voice. 

“Jarvis is unique,” Bruce says when Tony doesn’t answer. “There is nothing like him in the whole world. No one has ever created a truly successful AI before this. Jarvis is a real personality – he isn’t just a machine imitating the trappings of one. If someone got hold of him and corrupted his core parameters, it could be devastating.” 

“Skynet?” Clint looks at the window, where Tony is moving windows of data around at breath-taking speed. 

“Pretty much,” Bruce nods, smiling tightly. 

“How hard are you trying not to freak out right now?” Clint asks. 

“Pretty hard,” Bruce looks down and lets out a deep breath. “This is scary on a very global level. Most people don’t even know that Jarvis exists. He’s too important to be public knowledge. And someone not only knows about him, but is trying to turn him against us.” 

“And there is still naught we can do to help,” Thor growls, clearly at the end of his patience. 

“Isn’t there any way of tracking this?” Steve asks, sounding a little desperate. 

“Trying,” Tony says from the window, writing an equation onto the glass. “Locator, locator, locate me a spy, bring him within reach of my laser-beam eyes…” 

“He’s rhyming,” Steve says flatly. 

“Stressed here!” Tony yells. 

“Transfer complete,” Jarvis says. “Currently directing seventy-four point eight nine percent of processing power to combatting the attack. Running diagnostics.” 

“Buckle up, boys and girls,” Tony mutters, “this could get very interesting indeed.” 

 

 

“So let me get this straight,” Clint says as he goes downstairs to get his bow, Natasha with him. “The Mandarin is slowly and surely capturing pieces of Jarvis, and we can’t go up against him to stop him because he has more firepower. The only way we could stop him is with the Hulk, but if we put the Hulk in the field, the Mandarin will use his rings to turn him against us. Tony is losing his shit, Bruce is having a very controlled meltdown, and the only way he thinks he’ll be able to get the Hulk back on our side is by…what was it?” 

“Remembering his repressed memories,” Natasha sighs, “which is what the Mandarin is using to control him, the way he did when he captured Bruce before." 

“This all sounds kind of insane.” 

“It does.” 

“And we’re totally screwed.” 

“It looks that way.” 

“Well,” Clint opens the door for Natasha as they enter the range, “I don’t know about you, but this is the calmest apocalypse situation _I’ve_ ever been in.” 

“You’ve jinxed it now,” she shakes her head as she picks up her guns and loads up with extra ammunition. 

“You don’t believe in that crap,” he reminds her as he slings his quiver over his shoulder and hefts his bow in his hand. The weight is reassuring and firm. 

“But you do,” she gives him a pointed look. “You even believe in star signs.” 

“I don’t believe in star signs,” he argues, “I’m just saying that a lot of it matches up.” 

“You spent too long in the fortune-teller’s tent as a kid, Barton.” 

“You can’t talk – we chose your birthday based on your star sign.” 

“Says the Sagittarius.” 

“Low blow, Romanoff.” 

She looks at him as they stride out of the range and head for the elevator, and smiles. “Do I ever aim high?” 

He smiles back and she lets him put an arm over her shoulders. “It’s going to be fine,” he says. 

“You think?” 

“Sure. Apocalypses are always loud and flashy, with a lot more gunfire.” 

“Well the night’s still young.” 

“I’ve always found your optimism an extremely attractive trait.” 

She elbows him gently and he laughs and removes his arm as they get into the elevator. Maybe it’s just taking a while to hit him, but it certainly doesn’t feel like the end of the world. And if it is, well. Maybe he’ll die. Maybe he’ll get to hurt the bad guy before he does. Maybe he’ll see Coulson again. 

When they get back into the main room, everyone’s ready for battle except for Tony, who’s standing next to Bruce in front of the window, where Agent Hill is arguing with them. 

“This is completely unacceptable!” Tony snaps, and she narrows her eyes. 

“You think I’m not aware of that, Stark?” 

“What did we miss?” Clint asks Thor. 

“The files containing the information Bruce needs to remember have been erased,” Thor explains under his breath. “He and Tony believe that if he knows what truly occurred, he will remember and regain control of the Hulk.” 

“But the files are gone,” Natasha face is blank – her battle mask. 

“It’s okay,” Bruce says, looking far from okay himself, “there must have been people who read the files, right? Before they were destroyed, someone must have compiled the information?” 

Agent Hill’s expression becomes strained. “We don’t have access to the only person who could be of help in that respect.” 

Clint sighs and goes to lean against the wall next to Steve. Coulson compiled their files himself. He spent hours collecting every scrap of relevant information. The Banner incident had always been one of his, right from the first meeting with General Ross’ team. 

“Excuse me,” Agent Hill says suddenly, pressing her finger to her earpiece and turning away slightly. 

“This isn’t exactly something you can excuse!” Tony yells, but she ignores him. 

“Say that again,” she says into her earpiece, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “What? He’s…I see. Thank you, yes, your incompetence will be reported to the Director himself. I hope you’re very pleased with yourself. Put Stevens on the line.” 

“I wouldn’t want to be that guy,” Clint says conversationally, but Steve just looks worried. He jerks when Agent Hill says his name. 

“Captain! Front and centre, please. I need to speak with you for a moment, alone.” 

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Tony puts up a hand between Steve and the window, “are you telling me what to do in my house?” 

“This really isn’t the moment for egotism, Stark,” Agent Hill says acidly. Clint feels like he’s watching a tennis match, being played with a live bomb as the ball. 

“No, it’s a moment for you to remember exactly who we are,” Tony glares at her. “This is my tower, and we are all part of this team. That includes Bruce, and this concerns him. Anything you have to say about him to Steve, you can say to all of us, right, Cap?” he looks over at Steve, and Clint holds his breath. This is a real make-or-break moment as far as the partnership between Tony and Steve goes. 

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He draws himself up and looks Agent Hill dead in the eye. “Right,” he says, and no one misses the smile that plays at the corner of Tony’s mouth for a second before he steels himself. 

“So say what you have to say, Agent Hill. Or better yet, put Fury on the line.” 

“Director Fury is busy,” she snaps, and closes her eyes for a moment. “Fine. An agent who possesses the information you seek is on his way to the tower right now. He will arrive in less than five minutes. I don’t want any record of his presence there, do you understand me? His existence alone…I don’t want camera feeds, microphones, or any of your high-tech devices detecting more than six bodies in that tower, do I make myself clear? And only Dr Banner is allowed to see him. If you don’t agree to these terms, we stop him from entering the building. Are you in?” 

Tony narrows his eyes and looks at Bruce, who nods. “Fine,” he snaps, “you’ve got a deal. How close is this mystery guy?” 

Clint zones out and tightens his grip on his bow. _We don’t have access to the only person who could be of help in that respect._ That’s what Agent Hill had said. _The only person_. The only person, who happens to be Phil Coulson, deceased. And now there's an agent on his way to the tower who apparently has the information that _only_ Coulson had possessed. An agent whose identity is such a secret that Agent Hill had demanded that the surveillance be completely shut down and insisted on only Bruce being able to see him. 

He isn’t stupid. 

He isn’t stupid, so he knows it can’t be true. Coulson’s dead. It was confirmed. He’s dead, and people who die stay dead. He never saw the body because no one ever sees the bodies SHIELD pulls in from the field apart from the coroners. He never attended a funeral because SHIELD agents don’t have them. He never watched the footage because he couldn’t bring himself to, and he doesn’t need to – Thor saw it happen with his own eyes, and Natasha had reviewed the footage herself. It’s not true, he knows, but he still feels slightly winded. He still has to tap out the patterns for his different arrows over the bow’s buttons without actually pressing them, just reassuring himself that he remembers. 

Index, middle, ring for normal. Little, ring, index for explosive. Middle and ring for electro. Double index and middle for flare. He runs through each of them over and over, keeping his thumb pressed on the lock to stop his quiver activating. He sees Natasha approach him, but doesn’t lift his head. 

“Are you alright?” she asks quietly, and he doesn’t answer immediately. 

“You saw the footage,” he says finally. She knows what he means. “Right? He’s dead. This is just me being stupid.” 

“You’re not stupid.” 

“Yeah,” he forces his fingers to relax and switches the bow to his other hand. “You saw it. He’s dead, isn’t he?” 

She leans against the wall next to him and ducks her head with a sigh. “I saw it. He died.” 

He can’t decide whether the confirmation hurts more or less than the hope being crushed. Fool’s hope, he thinks. He’s always been a fool. Maybe he can’t help it. 

When the agent arrives though, he has to hold onto the kitchen counter to stop himself from running to the elevator to check. He just wants to be sure. A hundred percent sure. He needs to know. His knuckles turn white, and he closes his eyes and puts his back to the door. The agent is going to Tony’s office, which is probably the one room in the tower people hardly ever go into. Tony barely uses it, and Clint’s pretty sure the only reason it exists at all is because it also has an extremely well-stocked bar in it. Bruce goes alone to meet him, and he’s gone for a long time. Normally, Clint would be the one to break the silence and suggest something stupid to keep their minds occupied, but this time he can’t bring himself to speak. 

“You can’t,” Natasha whispers, coming into the kitchen and putting the kettle on for tea. Bruce has dozens of strange teas, and Natasha and Steve drink them sometimes. 

“Can’t what?” he mutters. 

She smacks his elbow lightly. “You know what.” 

He knows her protest is only a token thing. She’s tense as well. Footage can be faked, after all. 

He crushes that thought as soon as it crosses his mind. He can’t have hope. He knows he can’t. Coulson’s dead, and that’s that. He’s gone, and Clint knows it. Everyone knows it. 

He and Natasha both know that he’s still going to check. He doesn’t care what Agent Hill thinks or does – he needs to be sure. He needs to _know_. 

He hears Bruce’s footsteps as they approach the door, and he turns to watch him enter. It’s strange for the door to be closed in the first place – they always leave it open – and it seems to happen too slowly. Bruce looks exhausted, but after nodding at Tony, the first person he looks for is Clint. 

Clint doesn’t think about what that means, but he’s moving forward before he really knows what his feet are doing. Bruce nods to him too, and Clint doesn’t look at anyone else before he leaves the room. No one tries to stop him. No one says anything. Tony’s office door is just along the hall, and the door is closed. Clint walks to it quickly and opens it without knocking. 

There’s a man inside, and he looks just like Coulson. 

There’s a man in Tony’s office. He looks like Phil. 

Clint stops, hand still on the door handle. He can’t think. There’s nothing in his head other than Coulson’s name, over and over like a prayer. “Are you real?” he manages to say. His voice is insubstantial, just a breath. 

The agent nods. “I am.” 

Clint swallows, because it sounds like Coulson as well. “You’re not…” he shakes his head and tries to think. “You’re not a…an LMD, or an alien? Or…a robot?” he can feel himself trembling; he can hear it in his voice, and he swallows, trying to control himself. 

“I’m real.” 

Oh, Clint thinks, and takes a moment just to stare. Coulson is in a suit that fits him well, dark and smart. He looks good, from his perfectly knotted tie to his shined shoes, and he looks like himself. His face is exactly the way Clint remembers it, but with details his mind’s eye had overlooked. The lines that go from his nose to the edges of his mouth, and the small creases beyond them. The shape of his eyebrows, sloping back and giving him his easy-going look. The tiny wrinkles around his eyes, especially at the corners. Everything looks so clear, and Clint feels the world spinning around him, the floor of the room tilting under his feet, because this is impossible. 

He’s overloading, and he’s being pulled in too many directions at once. He wants to scream at Coulson, he wants to kiss him, he wants to shoot him, he wants to curl into a ball, and he wants to curl around Coulson and just cling to him, touch him all over to prove that he’s real and solid and _alive_. 

The word, even only spoken mentally, sets his head shaking and his feet scuffing backwards. “I can’t deal with this,” he hears himself say, unable to so much as blink in case Coulson disappears. “I, I can’t…not now, not after…I can’t.” 

Tearing his eyes away gives him almost physical pain, but his world is upside down by now and he barely manages to stumble out of the door in one piece without falling over. He’s scared that if he falls now he might never get up. He leans his hand heavily against the wall as he makes his way back to the main room, and Natasha comes out and stands in front of him. He meets her eyes and answers her unspoken question with a nod. She almost runs to Tony’s office to see for herself. He doesn’t know how he makes it back to the living room, but he can’t look at anyone in the eye. He thinks they speak, but he can’t make sense of what they say, so he just shakes his head until they leave him alone. 

He follows the others blindly to the quinjet and sits in silence next to Natasha as they fly to wherever the Mandarin’s holed himself up, because Jarvis is cracking under the pressure, but Bruce has his memories and he’s worked something out with the Hulk. Very distantly, Clint hopes it works, but mostly he feels like he’s full of white noise. 

“Clint,” Natasha says, pressing her shoulder against his, and she sounds the way she did just after she’d beaten the blue edges out of his vision on the Helicarrier. 

“Is this real?” he whispers so that only she will hear him. He can see her hair in the edge of his vision, but he can’t move his eyes from the floor. “Is he real?” 

“He’s real.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Codes we agreed on. Signals we worked out.” 

“Just the two of you?” 

“Of course. He cut his finger to prove he was human.” 

“Real blood?” 

“Real blood. It certainly tasted like it, at least.” 

He breathes in deep and closes his eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this.” 

“Shut it out,” she tells him firmly. “Focus on the mission. For the next few hours, forget everything outside of this team.” 

He’s always been good at following direct orders. It takes him a few minutes, but he straightens and manages to look her in the eye, focusing clearly. She gives him the barest twitch of her lips and nods. He dips his head as well, and looks over at Steve. He clears his throat, and Steve looks up immediately. “So, Cap,” Clint says, and swallows down everything that could interfere, “what’s the plan?”


	12. We Were Made Up Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint finds Coulson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [I Know You Know](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDWnJo_NoL8&feature=related) by Empires. And the video I've linked is the only one with the full song I could find, but since it's an X-Men fanvid, I think it fits okay. :)

The mission passes in a blur. They don’t get the Mandarin, but they destroy his base and stop the attack on Jarvis. Tony collects enough data to keep him busy for months, Bruce passes out after the Hulk lets himself go and doesn’t wake up like he usually does, and Clint manages to keep himself together long enough to get back to the tower a couple of hours before the sun is due to rise. The mission is over, and he only has one thing on his mind now. 

“He’s still there?” he asks Jarvis for the hundredth time. 

Jarvis replies, infinitely patient, “He has not left, Agent Barton. He is still in Mr Stark’s office.” 

“Thanks,” Clint rubs his eyes with his thumbs and tries to hold it together. It’s proving extremely difficult. He multiplies in his head to try and keep his mind off the issue, but it doesn’t work very well. He’s always been pretty good at maths, so it's not as distracting as he'd like it to be.

When they touch down, Steve gives final orders as they troop into the tower. “Thor, can you carry Bruce to his room? Thanks. Tony, leave the data for tonight, please? It’s not going anywhere. Get some rest – go with Thor and Bruce, okay? Clint, Natasha…” he looks at their faces and waves a tired hand. “Go find Coulson. I’m going to bed and sleeping for at least three days.” 

“Jarvis?” Clint asks as Tony limps after Thor, stripped of his armour. 

“Agent Coulson is still in Mr Stark’s office, Agent Barton.” 

“You go,” Natasha tells him, touching his shoulder briefly as they pause to let Steve out before them. “I’m going to have a shower. See you tomorrow.” 

“It is tomorrow,” he says. His mind is blanking out again. She puts her hands either side of his face and pulls it down so that she can kiss his forehead. 

“Go,” she says gently, and pushes him in the direction of Tony’s office before heading towards the elevator, which Steve is holding for her. 

Clint stands in the corridor until the elevator doors close and he’s left alone. He’s terrified, he realises. He very rarely freezes, but he can’t move now. Once he starts, he won’t be able to stop, and he’s suddenly so, so scared that it isn’t real. If he walks in there and the office is empty, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. If he walks in and finds out that Coulson isn’t Coulson and is actually some sort of SHIELD trick, he’ll have a meltdown for sure. 

“Agent Barton,” Jarvis says softly. 

Clint has to swallow before his throat will work. “Yeah, Jarvis?” 

“Agent Coulson has not left Mr Stark’s office. I believe he’s waiting for you.” 

Clint swallows again. “Right. Right.” He can do this, he tells himself. He just needs to move. “Okay.” Move. _Move_. 

His right foot takes the initiative and suddenly he’s walking towards the door of Tony’s office, breathing shallow and blood rushing in his head. He pushes the handle down, pushes the door open, walks in, and stops. Coulson rises from where he’s been sitting on one of Tony’s weirdly shaped, over-priced chairs and smooths his suit down. The gesture is habitual, so familiar it makes Clint want to cry, because it’s pure Coulson – no one could fake that. No one would even think to try. His head feels light, and he bites down on his tongue to try and anchor himself. It doesn’t work very well. 

“You’re still real?” he asks, and his voice comes out far too high, far too scared. 

Coulson takes a step forward, and it takes all of Clint’s self-control not to flinch away instinctively. He’s never been so scared and strung out in his whole life. “I’m still real,” Coulson says quietly. Clint forces himself into motion, and he circles around Coulson before he realises what he’s doing. “I’m real,” Coulson says again, and Clint pauses. Coulson’s turned so his back is to the wall, and he takes a small step to the side so that the door is easily accessible. Another incredibly Coulson move, and Clint swallows furiously. 

“Phil,” he manages to say, not quite a question, barely audible. Coulson keeps his eyes on him, and Clint takes a deep breath before he approaches him. He’s been keeping at least two metres between them – standard procedure for being in the vicinity of an unpredictable person – and he closes the gap until he’s less than a foot away, standing right in front of Coulson. They’re practically nose to nose, and Clint lifts his hand slowly, giving Coulson plenty of time to stop him if he chooses. He doesn’t, and Clint’s fingertips brush his jacket lapel so lightly he doubts Coulson even feels it. He clenches his jaw to stop it trembling before he pushes down, just slightly, and feels the solid bulk underneath the material. “You’re real,” he whispers, and Coulson nods, never taking his eyes from Clint’s. 

“I’m real,” he breathes, like he’s trying not to scare Clint off. 

“Fuck,” Clint feels his lips shape the word, and he bites down on his tongue hard, but it does nothing. Fuck it, he thinks, _fuck_ it. He pushes Coulson until he steps back and keeps pushing until he’s up against the wall, Clint crowding in on him. Coulson could easily push him away or just stop, but he doesn’t, so Clint thinks _fuck it_ one more time, closes his eyes, and kisses him. It barely qualifies as a kiss – just pushing his lips against Coulson’s bruisingly hard for three long seconds – but as he draws away, Coulson leans into it and follows him back. Clint pauses in shock, eyes half-open, and Coulson doesn’t move either. The tips of their noses are just touching, and Clint won’t be the one to break the contact. Neither of them do anything for the longest moment, and then at the same time they both move in again. 

This time, it’s a _real_ kiss, and Clint pushes himself up against Coulson’s body and tries to get as close as he possibly can. “You’re real,” he breathes as they break apart for a brief second, “you’re real, you’re real –” 

“Clint,” Coulson whispers, and Clint feels the shock jump through him like a physical thing. 

“You’ve never…” he says, pulling back and staring at Coulson. You’ve never called me Clint, he wants to say, but he can’t get his mouth around the words. “Say that again,” he says instead, and Coulson smiles and puts a hand on the back of his neck to pull him in again. 

“Clint,” he murmurs against Clint’s lips, and kisses him again. Clint can feel his heart in his throat, hear it in his ears, and he can hear everything else too – every movement of his uniform against Coulson’s suit, every wet sound their mouths are making, and every puff of breath either of them lets out. They reassure him that Coulson’s alive and breathing against him, solid and real. 

“Stay,” he begs next time they part, lips wet and breathing ragged, “don’t go, please.” 

Coulson takes a moment to get his breath back and nods, smile familiar enough to break Clint’s heart. “Of course I’ll stay,” he says, and Clint kisses him again, pushing and straining against him. He wants to sink into Coulson’s bones so that there’s no space between their bodies at all; he wants to get rid of Coulson’s damn clothes and run his fingers over every inch of his body to check that he’s absolutely there and whole; he wants to curl around him and never let go for another second; he wants to do so much, he wants – “Come on,” Coulson says, pushing gently so that he can stand away from the wall, “you need to rest.” 

As long as Coulson doesn’t try to unwind Clint’s arm from around his waist, Clint will let him lead them wherever he wants. It takes them the better part of half an hour to make it up to Clint’s room because they keep pushing each other against the walls and kissing for minutes on end, and they lose Clint’s armguard and Coulson’s tie along the way. 

Once they get to Clint’s room they barely manage to close the door before Clint’s pushing at Coulson’s jacket. “I need to see,” he says, almost apologetically, but Coulson understands and doesn’t try to stop him. 

Clint thinks he tears off a few buttons as he pulls Coulson’s shirt open, but he’s way past caring. There are scars under the material, and Clint traces them and spreads his palms out across Coulson’s sides, feeling what can only be a burn scar over his left hip. There’s gauze over and above his heart, and Clint touches it lightly, understanding immediately what it means. Loki’s left scars on both of them – Coulson’s are just more visible. 

“It’s fine,” Coulson tells him softly. “I don’t need the bandages really, but it protects my shirt if it opens up again.” Clint kisses him to make him stop talking about things that hurt, and unbuckles his belt deftly. Coulson’s hands catch his before he can unbutton the pants and presses his forehead against Clint’s. “Not tonight,” he whispers, and Clint nods. 

“I know,” he touches Coulson’s temple and lays his hand over his cheek. “Don’t go.” 

“I won’t,” Coulson promises. He toes off his shoes carelessly and walks Clint to the bed so that they can sit on the edge. Clint unlaces his boots while Coulson unzips his vest for him and eases it off his shoulders. Clint kicks his boots off and they both manage to get down to their boxers without actually separating at all, and suddenly the exhaustion is overwhelming. Coulson runs a hand through Clint’s hair and laughs breathlessly. “Sleep, okay? Come on, get in,” he lifts the covers and Clint rolls under them because Coulson told him to. 

“You’re staying, right?” he asks, catching Coulson’s hand, and Coulson smiles, letting Clint pull him under as well. 

“I’m staying,” he agrees. 

“I don’t think I’d be able to take you going again,” Clint admits, pressing his face into Coulson’s good shoulder. “Lights.” 

In the darkness, Coulson presses himself close and holds him as he falls asleep, and Clint thinks he might have died and not realised it, and if that’s the case, he really doesn’t care at all. 

 

 

The world is bright beyond his eyelids, stuck closed with sleep, and Clint is warm and comfortable under the sheets. He stretches without opening his eyes and turns over, bringing up a hand to rub at them. He remembers just before he opens them what happened the night before – Coulson, the Mandarin, Coulson coming to bed with him – and his hand falls on empty space as he wakes up properly and realises that no one else is there with him. 

He snaps upright and looks around, Coulson’s name on his lips (if it wasn’t real, if it was somehow a hallucination or a dream he’s going to fall apart), and he sees Coulson sitting in a chair across the room, on the verge of getting up. He stills when Clint sees him and breathes out a ragged sigh of relief, and he stays seated as Clint pushes back the covers and gets up to come over to him, fingers spread and ready but too nervous to touch.  

Coulson takes his hand, solving the problem, and Clint sighs again. “You’re still here.” 

“I said I would stay,” Coulson says simply, and lets Clint tug him to his feet. He’s dressed in his suit again, but his shirt is slightly creased and his tie is still missing. He didn’t leave the room to go and get it, Clint thinks, and feels something in his chest inflate with happiness. 

“You did,” he agrees, and presses his forehead to Coulson’s for a moment. “Okay,” he says, eyes closed as he tries to get a grip, “here’s what we’re going to do – I’m going to brush my teeth, then you’re going to tell me everything. That cool?” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay,” Clint swallows and forces himself to step away, going into the bathroom and closing the door. He takes a leak, washes his hands and face, brushes his teeth, all on autopilot. He clamps down on the flash of gratitude that sparks when he sees that Coulson hasn’t left and takes a deep breath instead. “Okay,” he says, blank mask in place, “tell me what happened. How are you here? Thor saw Loki kill you. Natasha saw the footage.” 

“Did you see the footage?” Coulson asks, and Clint barely conceals a flinch. 

“No,” he says shortly, going to lean against the dresser, “I couldn’t,” he adds without looking at Coulson. 

Coulson sighs and puts a hand on the back of the chair he’d been sitting in, holding himself up. “I did die,” he tells Clint, “my heart stopped twice before I stabilised, and the blood loss was close to fatal. I was in a coma for a month. When I woke up, I was extremely weak. Fury explained that my survival was a secret – no one had known for sure whether or not I would make it, so he thought it better not to get anyone’s hopes up.” 

“A month,” Clint repeats numbly, “that doesn’t…you’ve been running around almost this whole time? And you didn’t think we might like to know?” he clenches his fists, only just managing to keep himself from shouting. Coulson sighs. 

“I wasn’t fit to do anything but lie still in a hospital bed for another few weeks after I woke up. There are many advantages to being technically dead, Clint,” his name from Coulson’s mouth is as wonderful as it was last night, “the boss needed someone he could trust after everything that happened, and I had to –” 

“You didn’t have to do shit,” Clint snaps. “Does this mean you’re in the ghost squad now?” 

“No such thing exists,” Coulson says smoothly, automatically, and Clint glares at him. Everyone at SHIELD knows about Fury’s ghosts – men and women who are technically dead so that they can move around and above the system, untouchable and insubstantial. No records exist of their identities past the dates of their deaths. That’s another reason for the no bodies and no funerals policy. Coulson sees Clint’s murderous expression and sighs. “I’m not part of anything,” he says. “I kept track of your progress – and Natasha’s – and you moved on. You didn’t need me anymore. You’re Avengers now, not SHIELD agents.” 

Clint wants to _hit_ him. “How are you so dense?” he asks instead, disbelieving. “Did your brains leak out with all that blood? We didn’t move on – _I_ didn’t move on. Natasha couldn’t tell me what had happened until after Loki went back, because she knows what I would’ve done if I’d known he’d killed you,” he steps closer and glares at Coulson, “I wouldn’t have given two shits about a truce with Asgard, or inter-planet security or goodwill, or any of that. I would’ve killed him. I would’ve put an explosive arrow in his eye and detonated it. I’ve had more nightmares in the past few months than I have had in my whole life. I’m always going to need you, okay? SHIELD agent or Avenger, that’s never going to change. And yeah, that makes me weak, and dependent, but I don’t _care_ , not anymore.” He pauses, well aware that he’s shaking slightly, and his voice is a little too high. “I can’t do this without you,” he admits, “just…living without you has been the hardest thing…” he trails off helplessly, and Coulson steps forward and pulls him into a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against Clint’s hair, “I’m so sorry,” 

“You’d better be,” Clint mumbles into his shoulder. “And you should probably tell Fury to update his security, because this was not okay. This was _so_ far from okay.” 

“I wasn’t too pleased with it either,” Coulson admits, and Clint remembers Agent Hill’s reaction to being told that Coulson was on his way to the tower. 

“Are you in trouble for letting us see you?” 

“Probably,” Clint feels him shrug and wraps his arms around his waist. “I don’t care. This has gone on long enough.” 

“Damn right it has.” Clint’s really glad he has the cover of Coulson’s shoulder to hide his suddenly damp eyes. He’s going to need to break down in the shower later, he can just tell. “What have you even been _doing?_ ” 

“Too much physiotherapy,” Coulson says darkly, and Clint smiles and steps back, coughing to clear his throat of the lump that’s worked its way in there. 

“You had breakfast yet?” 

“No.” 

“You want breakfast? Let’s have breakfast. Jarvis?” 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Where’s everyone else?” 

“Dr Banner is still unconscious – Mr Stark is with him. Thor and Captain Rogers are still asleep, and Agent Romanoff has left the tower. I believe she said something about taking a walk.” 

“Kitchen’s free then,” Clint clarifies, “great, let’s have breakfast. Thanks Jarvis.” 

“My pleasure, Agent Barton.” 

Clint laces his fingers with Coulson’s as they walk downstairs and holds on tight. Coulson pauses to pick up his tie and Clint’s armguard from where they left them the night before, but doesn’t let go of Clint’s hand to put it on. Clint has cereal and Coulson has fruit, and it’s good. It’s domestic. It’s so normal, Clint can’t quite believe it. He chose to stay away from SHIELD because he couldn’t bear to move in a world where Coulson had been his lodestone. Coulson’s never been in the tower with him before, and yet he puts bowls on the countertop while Clint gets the cutlery, and it’s seamless. He slips into Clint’s life without any grating at all. 

“Hey, Coulson? What’s gonna happen now?” Clint asks when he’s done, unable to stop himself watching every move Coulson makes. His eyes are his most reliable part of him, after all, and if he keeps them focused on Coulson, it means that this is real, and Coulson’s here, and _alive_. 

“What happened to Phil?” Coulson asks, a slight tilt to his lips, and Clint grins. He feels like he’s flying. This is easily the best day of his life. 

“Phil,” he says, like he’s never said it before, the smooth scrape of his teeth on his bottom lip and the press of the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth delicious and new. “Okay. What’re we gonna do now?” 

“Well,” Coulson – _Phil_ – puts his plate in the sink and leans against the countertop, “I’m going to talk to Director Fury about my future as soon as I see him, and I suppose we’ll see how it goes from there.” 

“Be our liaison,” Clint says, “we’ve had about six already – you should do that, you’re good at superhero wrangling. You and Pepper could exchange tips.” 

“What makes you think we haven’t already?” Coul– _Phil_ smirks, and Clint gets up to kiss him again, long and sweet. He tastes of mango and strawberries, and Clint keeps his eyes closed for a long moment afterwards. 

“Don’t leave again.” 

“As long as you want me to stay, I’ll stay.” 

“Might be a pretty long sentence.” 

“That’s fine by me,” Phil presses a kiss to his cheek, and it’s so intimate that Clint never wants to move again. “I’ll have to talk to the rest of the team, of course.” 

“They’ll want you to stay,” Clint tells him, opening his eyes. “We all missed you.” Saying that rams home the truth – Phil was dead, as good as buried for five months and they had all accepted that. And now he’s standing right in front of Clint, alive and breathing and willing to stay. It’s kind of mind blowing. “I don’t think this has sunk in yet,” he realises, and Phil smiles against his skin. 

“It definitely hasn’t for me.” 

“You’ve known you were alive.” 

“But not that this would happen. I didn’t think –” 

“Wait,” Clint pulls back and frowns, “this as in us knowing you’re alive, or this as in,” he waves his hand wordlessly between their chests, “this?” 

“Both,” Phil says, and Clint shakes his head. 

“How come the smartest people I know are always so dumb? It’s like, the smarter the person, the dumber they are.” 

“Thank you so much,” Phil says sarcastically, and Clint grins. 

“You’re not leaving this tower for at least a week. You know that, right?” 

“I’m aware,” Phil can’t seem to stop smiling, and that’s just fine. Clint kisses him again, tries to melt into the shape of his body, and only stops when a familiar throat clears pointedly behind them. 

“While I’m very glad to see that you’ve both finally decided to stop being such blind idiots,” Natasha says, “you’re not the only one who missed Coulson.” 

Clint grins and doesn’t let go of Phil’s shoulders. “Told you.” 

“When everyone’s up –” Phil starts. 

“We’ll have a house meeting,” Natasha cuts him off and comes over to kiss his cheek. She puts a hand on each of their shoulders for a moment and closes her eyes. “And then,” she says, and Clint is suddenly very aware that she could kill them both in seconds, “we’ll discuss how to deal with Fury.” 

“There’s a conversation I can’t wait for,” Phil says dryly, and Natasha smirks, pats their shoulders, and goes to make herself a cup of tea, moving around them easily. Clint doesn’t let go of Phil, and Phil gives no indication that he wants him to. 

“It can wait,” Clint decides, temporarily grateful to everyone and everything for allowing him to have this. After all the crap he’s come up against, and all the wonderful things that have happened to him, this is something he never dreamed he would be allowed to have, and he can’t keep the smile from his face. 

“You’re going to be disgusting,” Natasha says pleasantly as she gets one of Bruce’s odd teas out of his cupboard, “I can just tell.” 

That’s fine, Clint decides, and kisses Phil again before pulling him out of the kitchen so they won’t get in Natasha’s way. Everything’s fine. He has a home, he has a team, and now he has Phil Coulson. Everything’s wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go, and that's the epilogue. I should post it in the next couple of days. :)


	13. Epilogue: Like Never Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of porn, really, and some fluff, because of reasons. This has been a long story, and this is its epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Songbird](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jISbwUehLrw&feature=related) by Fleetwood Mac.

Clint’s never had sex with another man before. A fair number of women, sure, and he’s kissed a couple of men, but never sex. So far though, he doesn’t think it’s going too badly. He’s always been open minded, after all. Phil doesn’t seem to mind that he apparently dribbles when he gives blowjobs, if the noises he’s making are any indication. Clint loves watching him, not missing a single expression that passes across his face. He loves touching him, really gentle feather-light brushes across his pulse points just to reassure himself that Phil’s alive, that he’s real and solid and there under Clint’s hands. He stretches his jaw a little wider and tries to take a little more in, and Phil groans. The sound makes Clint close his eyes for a second just to soak it up, and missing any potential expressions by doing that is made worth it by Phil gasping his name a second later. 

“Clint,” he breathes, eyes barely open, fist clenched hard in the mattress to stop himself bucking into Clint’s mouth and choking him (his gag reflex needs work, but he’s more than willing to practise), “I’m…I’m…” 

Clint pulls back a couple of inches to hum encouragingly, and Phil clenches his teeth and whines. Clint goes deep, and he’s ready when Phil’s cock pulses and he has to swallow several times, moving him through it. Phil’s hand in the mattress relaxes slowly, and Clint pulls off gently. There’s saliva everywhere, and he’s about to apologise when Phil touches a hand to his hair and tugs to get him back up to face-level with him. 

“Shh,” he says when Clint opens his mouth, and pulls him down to kiss him instead. Clint’s surprised – he’d been expecting to have to wash his mouth out first – but he goes with it perfectly happily. When they break apart, both grinning, Phil lifts a corner of the pushed-aside sheet to wipe Clint’s mouth. “Better,” he sighs, and kisses him again. 

Phil’s a very tactile person in private. Clint never would have guessed it, but he loves discovering these new things about his old handler, now new boyfriend. Clint presses himself down on top of Phil properly, trying to get some friction against his sorely-neglected erection, and Phil smiles against his mouth, reaching down to touch a finger to the tip. Clint groans when he pulls away. “Come on, man, you can’t leave me like this.” 

“That would be cruel,” Phil agrees, and rolls them so that he’s on top. He’s appropriately bossy in bed too, which delights Clint far more than it reasonably should. “Feel like trying this again?” he asks, trailing a hand up the inside of Clint’s thigh. 

Clint nods without really thinking about it, then says, “Yeah,” when Phil raises his eyebrows, “yeah, let’s do it.” 

“You sure?” 

“Oh my god, yes!” Clint pushes up against him and hisses in frustration. “Just –” 

“Okay,” Phil grins and grinds down against him, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Clint’s neck as he tips his head back happily. “Absolutely sure?” he says, but it’s more teasing now. 

“Phil, I swear, if you don’t do more than this, I’m going to lose it.” 

“I thought that was the point?” 

Smart ass, Clint thinks, but can’t vocalise it because Phil’s kissing him again. Kissing is one of Phil’s favourite things. Clint will never, ever complain about it, even when Phil does it just to shut him up. When Phil does lean over to the bedside table though, Clint does have to push down a stab of worry. They’re working up to full-on anal with him on the receiving end. Phil’s done it before, and he’s guided Clint through fucking him. The sight of Phil literally coming apart underneath him is something Clint’s burned into his memory so strongly he doubts even Loki could make him forget it. 

Relaxing is the thing Clint has difficulty with. He’s never been with anyone who wanted to do this to him, so it’s new and ever so slightly scary. The last time they tried it, Phil decided they weren’t quite ready. He only got one finger in that time. Clint’s ready now though, he’s sure of it. He wants to be. He wants this, more than he would’ve expected to at the beginning. Phil looked so great when Clint did it to him, and he wants that pleasure as well. He wants it with Phil, more to the point. 

Phil comes back, bottle of lube at the ready. “You’re sure?” he asks again, and Clint smiles breathlessly and grinds up against him. 

“I swear to god, Phil, if you ask me one more time whether I’m sure –” 

“No harm in checking,” Phil kisses his ear, and the sudden heat makes Clint’s hip jerk even as Phil spreads his legs gently. “Ready?” the cap of the lube bottle pops, and Clint nods, making a concentrated effort to relax. 

“Ready.” 

They get up to two fingers, and it’s not bad, it’s not uncomfortable, but it’s still a little strange. And then suddenly Phil crooks his fingers and Clint gasps, hands digging into the sheets. “Holy fucking fuck, what the fuck –” 

Phil laughs and does it again, softer, and Clint _keens_. “I told you about the prostate, right?” 

“Might’ve mentioned it, fucking _hell_ ,” Clint arches off the bed and curls his toes, “oh my god, Phil, _Phil_ ,” he loses sight of him and doesn’t even mind, that’s how far gone he is. He’s never been so damn hard in his _life_. He can’t even unclench his hands from where they’re wound into the sheets to touch himself. “Phil,” his hips jerk as Phil just keeps pressing that spot over and over, rhythmic and glorious, “Phil, please…oh my god, fuck, _please_ , Phil!” 

The hand Phil wraps around his dick is lube-slick, and Clint thrusts into it desperately. He doesn’t last long, and he thinks Phil’s whispering as he comes, telling him how amazing he looks, how much he’s wanted to do this, how beautiful Clint is, but Clint honestly wouldn’t be able to say for sure. There’s silence when he’s done, come on his chest and covering Phil’s hand, and he can’t do anything but lie there and breathe for a moment. 

“You okay?” Phil asks, and Clint makes a garbled sound. Phil laughs and gets off. He returns a second later with a damp washcloth, and he cleans them both up before falling into bed next to Clint. “Hey,” he whispers. 

Clint stares at him and pulls him in for a long kiss. “I love you,” he says when they break apart, and he doesn’t have time to whack himself mentally on the head for being so open so early in this relationship, because Phil’s eyes sparkle, and his grin tells Clint that his admission was anything but unwelcome. He pulls Clint close and touches butterfly kisses to his cheek, his eyebrow, the side of his nose. Clint finally twists his head so that their lips meet, and it’s slow and sweet and so utterly perfect Clint feels like he could just melt with happiness. 

“I love you,” Phil whispers when they break apart, leaning his forehead against Clint’s. “I love you.” 

“Well good,” Clint touches the tips of his fingers to the permanent grooves in Phil’s forehead and traces the lines, sliding his fingers down his face, past his crow’s feet to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Neither am I,” Phil tells him, and Clint finally closes his eyes, content just to feel Phil pressed against him, hand wide and warm on his hip and face close enough to feel his breathing. Phil reaches over Clint to pull the sheets over them and turns over in one smooth motion. Clint slings an arm over his waist without having to open his eyes, presses a kiss to the back of Phil’s neck, and buries his face between his shoulder blades sleepily. 

In a few hours, they’ll both have to get up – Clint to go down to the range, Phil to suit up and start on his endless paperwork – but it’s Friday tomorrow, and Bruce has decided that they need to start watching Firefly, so there’ll be popcorn and blankets, and everyone spread across everyone else’s legs and laps, and it’ll be just fine. And maybe Clint’s never been much of a team player, but no one could have predicted a dysfunctional team like theirs coming together, so maybe it all works out okay in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to everyone who left such wonderful, lovely comments on this. I can't tell you how happy they made me. 
> 
> I'm really glad all of you have come this far, and enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you again, hugely. :)
> 
> As a final note, there is now a fanmix to go with the story! It has all the songs the chapter titles are taken from as well as a bonus track that featured in the musical depths of chapter 10. If you're interested, you can find the track listing and links to listen to it on 8tracks and download it [here](http://myrimidryad.livejournal.com/116982.html).
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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